


A Smithfield Bargain

by shaggydogstail



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, Art Crime, Art Forgery, Artist Sirius Black, Confidence Trickster Sirius Black, Crime AU, Light Bondage, Lots of Weird British Slang, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Police Officer Remus Lupin, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Unprofessional behaviour, criminal activity, misuse of police resources
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-08 14:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16431512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaggydogstail/pseuds/shaggydogstail
Summary: DS Remus Lupin is head of the Metropolitan Police Art and Antiques Unit, ready to take his career to the next level as he joins a special operation targeting organised crime. Hardworking, likeable, and conscientious, he’s on course for promotion to DI. He’ll never admit that he’s bored.Sirius Black is a forger and con artist, working under the paper thin cover of running an art restoration business as he plots his grand scheme. Charming, brilliant, and bitter, the only thing he cares about is vengeance against an old enemy. He’ll never admit that he’s lonely.Neither of them is at all prepared for what the other has in store.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bshiat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bshiat/gifts), [LuminousGloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminousGloom/gifts).



> "A Smithfield Bargain" is a thieves cant expression, dating back to the 18th Century. It can refer to a bargain whereby the purchaser is taken in, or matches made 'on the score of interest... where the fair sex are bought and sold like cattle in Smithfield.'
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful RuinsPlume for diligent beta work. Any remaining errors are mine. Thanks also to the lovely Fixit Fest mods, without whom none of this would have ever been finished.
> 
> Last but by no means least, thanks to Ed and Gloom. You know why, and you know what this means. ;D

Remus bites the inside of his cheek and breathes in through his nose, trying to keep from yawning openly. Briefings are always dull, no matter how interesting the subject, and this one is no exception. Still, it’s important to make a good impression - Operation Phoenix is an exciting prospect, as well as being his best shot at making DI. It’s not often that big investigations specifically include his art fraud team. Even so, two hours in an overcrowded, soulless briefing room is enough to suck the life out of any subject, even international crime syndicates.

Glancing to the side, Remus sees that Alice is staring vacantly out of the window, not that she’s likely to see anything from that angle. He slides his foot over to give hers a quick nudge, startling her back to wakefulness. Better that than have DCI Moody catch her daydreaming. On the other side of the room, Kingsley’s doing his part for the reputation of the Art and Antiques Unit, sitting bolt upright and appearing to take copious notes. Remus is quietly confident he’s actually drawing another amusing caricature of DS Snape but, as long as no-one else notices, that’s fine by him.

The meeting must be nearly over, as Moody’s PowerPoint presentation of various suspects, witnesses, and potential targets has covered all the big fish and moved on to the minnows. Some of them Remus has heard of, most he hasn’t. Half are probably dead ends, but he makes notes of any he’s likely to be asked to question anyway.

‘And this,’ says Moody, clicking onto the next screen and bringing up a photograph of the most attractive man Remus has ever seen, ‘is Sirius Black. Black’s got previous for a string of petty offences, and did a stint in a Young Offenders’ Institute back in the nineties. Since then there’s been nothing much on him – he’s been in and out for questioning like he’s dancing the hokey cokey but nothing much ever sticks. Dropped out of a Fine Art degree at St Martin’s when he inherited his uncle’s restoration business. Comes from old money, and word is he ran with the Potter gang back in the day. We’ve got intel that he might be forging artworks – he’s got skills that would make him useful to Riddle’s lot – but my hunch is he’s just a small time confidence trickster.’

‘Still an improvement on turning tricks,’ Snape drawls. He’s been listening to the entire briefly with a vaguely superior expression, like he’s heard it all before. ‘I pulled that one in for soliciting when I was back in uniform.’

Remus ought to be listening, because Snape’s information could be useful, however irritating the man himself might be. Instead he finds himself gazing at the picture on the screen. Little wonder that Black’s some kind of artist; he looks like fresh-painted sin, with full lips and tousled hair falling into come-to-bed eyes. Remus wouldn’t mind pulling him at all. Moody moves onto the next subject, and Remus forces himself to pay attention.

#

A week later Moody asks Remus to sound out Black about a couple of fake Sisleys that found their way into the luggage lining of some chancer who swears blind he’s no idea how they got there, and of course he’s never even heard of Riddle. Moody reckons Black’s a possible for creating the works, although it’s nothing more than a hunch just yet.

‘Take DC Longbottom with you,’ orders Moody. ‘Makes sure she keeps her eyes open while you talk to Black, if you get my drift.’

Remus knows exactly what he means; there’s no basis for a search warrant on Black’s studio, but anything an officer happens to see when they’re invited in for a chat is fair game, and there’s not much gets past Alice. She only joined his team a few months back, although she looks far more the part of detective specialising in art fraud than Remus does: she’s white, for starters, speaks with a pleasantly middle-class Home Counties accent, and she got her degree the traditional way, rather than slogging away at evening classes. She’s also smart, and kind, and a little bit cheeky, which is why Remus likes her.

‘You know, Sarge, if they ever pass a law against pretentious fuckwittage we’ll clean up here,’ says Alice, as they near the end of their long schlep from Scotland Yard to Hoxton. ‘Look at that – seven quid for a loaf of bread, and it looks like it’s been rolled in floorsweepings. They’re taking the piss.’

‘Organic floorsweepings,’ says Remus, glancing over at the bakery Alice pointed out. It’s decorated like a cross between a warehouse and the kitchen at his primary school. ‘Although they look like they’d put wood shavings on the floor if Environmental Health would let them get away with it.’

They find Black’s shop fairly easily, but it’s closed and there’s no sign of opening hours on the door, just one small sign that he’s not running a legitimate business. He has a workshop and flat above, so they’ll just have to go up the outside way.

Alice mutters darkly about _poncing artist twats_ as they climb the stairs - really just a trumped up fire escape - to Black’s studio. Despite knowing that Alphard Black established the studio, and the restoration shop below, years back, well before the area had turned into a hipster hell-hole, Remus suspects she may have a point. The photos on Black’s case file, which Remus has spent longer than he ought to looking at, all suggest that Sirius Black is a little too cool for his own good.

It’s not Black who answers the door, though, but an ice-blonde who looks like she could rip the still-beating heart out of a man’s chest and crush it to dust without breaking a fingernail. She seems to be in a bit of a hurry.

‘Good morning, madam. I’m DS Lupin, this is my colleague DC Longbottom,’ says Remus, in the same pleasantly respectful tone he uses for everyone from frightened old dears to frightful old lags. Elderly citizens find it reassuring; criminals find it unnerving. ‘We were hoping to have a chat with Sirius Black. Do you know if he’s about?’

The East End Valkyrie doesn’t answer, just turns and walks back into the studio. She’s left the door wide open, which is enough of an invitation for Remus and Alice to follow her inside.

‘Old Bill for you,’ yells the woman, not bothering to look back as she pulls her coat on.

‘Fuck’s sake, Marlene, I’m working,’ comes a voice – distant, male, posh but trying not to sound it; must be Black – ‘tell them I’m not here.’

‘He says he’s not here,’ says Marlene, pulling up her zip. She glances between Remus and Alice. ‘Don’t touch, loves, you can’t afford the breakages,’ she tells them, before opening the door and yelling back at Black. ‘Remember, 20%. I’ll be back at eight.’

The door slams behind her, and Remus turns to see Black walk in from a distant part of the studio, looking vaguely disgruntled as he wipes his hands on a rag. The moment he lays eyes on Sirius Black, Remus decides whoever took the photographs on the case file ought to have their camera confiscated and chucked in the river, because they do not do him justice. The picture Sirius looked exceptionally attractive; when seen in three dimensions Sirius looks like the devil’s found a way to sculpt temptation out of human flesh. He’s not just classically handsome – tall, dark hair, perfect teeth, cheekbones you could hang your dreams on – there’s more; his clothes are expensive, his hair’s a sensual mess, and he carries himself with the sort of detached swagger than a thousand would-be wide boys would kill for.

Remus is just about to pull himself together and run through the whole professional, officer-of-the-law introduction, when Black stops short and points at him.

‘I know you,’ he says.

‘That hardly seems likely, sir,’ Remus tells him. He can’t imagine he’d meet and forget anyone who looked like _that_. ‘Although I do believe a number of my colleagues have enjoyed the pleasure of your company for questioning.’

Black moves towards him, curious and smug in equal measure. ‘I never forget a face,’ he says, leaning right into Remus’ personal space. ‘Or… anything else.’

‘Are these yours?’ Alice saves the day – and Remus’ composure – by breaking the tension and drawing Black’s attention away. It’s enough to allow Remus to get himself back on track and remind himself that Black is a con-artist – and a Tom if Snape’s to be believed – manipulating people is what he _does_. Remus knows better than to fall for any of it.

Black appears relaxed enough – he answers some general questions from Alice with good cheer, in between flirting and casting smug, amused glances at Remus – so when Alice wanders off, pretending to casually check out some paintings, it seems like as good a time as any to raise the question of the fake Sisleys. Black’s unlikely to confess, of course, but they’ve no real evidence yet so it’s worth a punt on the off-chance he lets something slip. He’s smart enough to know he’ll be a suspect, and Black seems to take it more as some sort of professional slight than anything else.

‘State of that brushwork,’ he mutters, frowning at the collection of photographs Remus has laid out. ‘Even in a photo it looks a mess, fuck knows how bad it is in the flesh.’

Remus almost smiles. ‘I suppose any forgery you carried out would be of superior quality?’

‘Damn right my work is superior quality.’ Black winks at him before turning his attention back to the photographs. ‘These are diabolical. Mind, shitty knock-off Sisleys are two a penny – some muppets think “Impressionist” means they can get away with any old zhooshed-up finger-painting. Honestly, just because something isn’t mannered doesn’t mean it’s a mess of random splodges.’

He’s got a point; the quality of the paintings isn’t great, though Remus is surprised – and a little impressed – that Black can see it just from photographs. Remus has had time to take a proper look at the canvases back at the station, and they are, for want of a better word, a touch “splodgey”. It’s interesting too, to see how Black’s demeanour shifts, and the fact that he’s not only knowledgeable about art, he’s passionate as well.

‘I take it this isn’t your work, then,’ says Remus, collecting the photographs back up. ‘Any ideas who the culprit might be?’

‘Are you asking me to help you with your enquiries?’ asks Black, his tone so salacious he might as well be offering to strip Remus naked and lick the length of him.

‘We’d be very interested in any relevant information,’ says Remus, doing his level best to maintain his composure and act like he’s not thinking about Black licking anything at all. He must be doing a decent job of it, because Black shrugs and steps back. 

‘I’d start asking around the local schools,’ Black says with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Find out who got a D in GCSE Art. Be sure to confiscate their brushes if you find them.’

Remus glances across at Alice, who has been sauntering around the studio glancing at whatever’s on display – not searching, of course, since they’ve not got a warrant – and when she nods he decides it’s time to call it a day. They’re not going to get anything useful out of Sirius Black just yet.

#

Two days later, a letter arrives for him. Only it’s not actually a letter; the envelope addressed to DS Lupin, New Scotland Yard, contains a single piece of paper, apparently torn from a sketchbook. There’s a drawing on it, simple yet elegantly done, of a man’s hip and upper thigh. It’s such a strange composition that Remus might not have immediately recognised what it was, if not for the fact that the drawing was also clearly of him; the ill-advised squid tattoo he’d had done to celebrate his eighteenth birthday is hard to miss.

He could waste a lot of time wondering about who would send him such a thing and why, but Remus has work to do. Just thinking about it makes him feel vulnerable and uncomfortable, so he drops the drawing in the recycling and gets on with things.

A week later there’s another drawing, hands unfastening a belt, and a fortnight after that a mouth, the tip of a tongue just poking out. Then the mystery artist takes things up a notch, sending Remus a lovingly inked illustration of a cock. Remus has a sneaking suspicion it’s meant to be _his_ cock. Finally there’s a reproduction of the smiling moon logo of a private gallery, The Oliver in Town, and then Remus knows exactly where he’s seen Sirius Black before.

> _Fourteen years earlier…_
> 
> _Remus had come to London all bright-eyed and ready for action, shaking off the dust of Caernarfon for the excitement of the big city. The Met was a big change from the North Wales Police, and he was still finding his feet, learning to soften his accent because even in cosmopolitan London people still struggled to understand how someone who looked like him could talk like that. (His habit of assuring people that no, of course there aren’t any Black Welsh people, his mum had met his dad on a day trip to Liverpool wasn’t doing him any favours either.)_
> 
> _He’d spent his day off mooching around, exploring, and had stumbled over the private exhibition by pure chance. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, but even off-duty he thought he ought to perform his civic responsibility and find someone to tell them they’d left the back door open._
> 
> _‘Hello?’ called Remus, wrapping his fingers against the door and peering into the half-light of an empty corridor. ‘Anyone home?’_
> 
> _There was the sound of distant scuffling and a moment later Remus was startled by a body behind him and a voice in his ear whispering some cheesy line about a nice boy like him in a place like this. Remus didn’t think he was that nice a boy, and he’d certainly been in rougher places, but the quip he’d normally make died at the back of his throat. This man, this stranger, was coming on to him, and he wasn’t giving Remus long to decide how he felt about it._
> 
> _Soon there were hands on his fly and lips on his neck, and soon Remus wasn’t thinking of much at all. He was no blushing virgin, but while he’d done alright picking up girls at youth club discos, he’d never done much more than look and wonder when it came to boys. The corridor was dark enough that Remus couldn’t properly see the bloke who spun him around, pressing Remus up against the wall like he’d done it a thousand times before._
> 
> _It was exciting, all the better for not having time to think. This was part of what Remus had come to London for, sexual experimentation and the chance to live a little. He knew where the right clubs were, the right parks, but he hadn’t chanced them yet. It was better this way, more spontaneous, nothing to analyse or feel responsible for. Remus pulled the stranger closer and kissed him, eager to feel the brush of stubble against his cheek, the heat of another erection pressing against his own. The other man didn’t speak again just laughed, deep and throaty, as he fell to his knees. He didn’t stop to ask as he unbuckled Remus’ belt quickly, then made equally short work of his flies._
> 
> _Remus had been given blow jobs before and they’d been good, sometimes even spectacular, but this was something special. Maybe because it was his first time with a bloke, or maybe it was the thrill of getting off with a stranger, or the excitement of knowing they could get caught at any moment. Maybe it was because the man running his tongue under the length of Remus’ dick was really, really good at it, some sort of champion cock-sucker. Remus was enjoying himself far too much to ask questions. He twisted his fingers in the stranger’s hair, liking how soft it felt, the contrast between that and the five o’clock shadow on his face, and the dirtiness of what they were doing. The only words Remus managed to form were a strangled warning before he came, quick and hard, spilling his load down the throat of a complete stranger._
> 
> _Still panting, Remus pulled up his pants and trousers, not quite managing to fasten his belt. ‘Do you want me to, er…?’ He broke off, uncertain. What was the etiquette in these situations?_
> 
> _The other man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. In the dim light of the corridor it was hard to see his face – he seemed young, and his hair was dark, and he looked pretty good from the little Remus could make out. There was another sound, distant banging from the other side of the building. That caught the man’s attention – he looked up, alert as a hunting dog._
> 
> _‘You need to go,’ he said, all but manhandling Remus to the door. ‘Now. And don’t look back.’_
> 
> _Not waiting to be told twice – and definitely not waiting to get caught – Remus did as he was told, blinking in the afternoon sun as he hurried back down the street, doing his best to refasten his belt without attracting attention. Not that anyone was looking. Not that anyone would guess, Remus thought to himself with a sly grin, that he’d just had a very pleasurable introduction to gay sex, getting his cock sucked in the middle of the afternoon. The speed, the anonymity was even better – he’d been spared the ordeal of psyching himself up first, and the stress of worrying about the consequences after. The fact that he’d never see the man ever again was a happy bonus._

‘How could I have forgotten?’ Remus mutters to himself. Anonymous sex with strangers isn’t something he makes a habit of any more – he isn’t stupid, he knows the risks, to more than his health – but it had been fun. He should be embarrassed by the memory, or at least the memory of the week after when he found out the Oliver in Town had been robbed that day, and his quickie in the corridor had almost certainly been a distraction to stop him walking in on it. He ought to feel ashamed, because he never said anything at the time, convinced himself that “one of them gives great head” wouldn’t have helped the investigating team find the perpetrators anyway. He _really_ ought to go and speak to Moody, admit that he’s got a personal connection to Black – possibly without going into details – and hope to salvage some of his professionalism that way.

What he actually does is barricade himself in the nice bogs on the eighth floor, adding the knowledge of Sirius’ face to the image of him back on his knees, and lets his imagination run wild as his hand strokes his cock, pumping frantically. Memory’s a poor substitute for reality, but he comes quickly, and soon he’s sitting with his trousers around his ankles and sweat cooling on his forehead, wondering what the hell he’s doing with his life.

#

They bring Sirius Black in for questioning three weeks later.

He looks relaxed, which seems about right, because he’s got Minerva McGonagall with him. She’s a familiar face from way back, and it’s a standing joke in the Yard that when a suspect has McGonagall as their brief it’s a sure sign of two things:

They’re guilty – maybe not of what they’re in for, but something.

They’re going to get away with it anyway.

McGonagall’s old school, representing the sort of villains who imagine themselves to have some sort of code of honour, who’ll smash the teeth from their enemies’ mouths but are always good to their mums. Back when the Potters’ gang was a force to be reckoned with - before it all fell to pieces after the still unsolved murders of Lily and James Potter - she was a permanent fixture at the Yard, and she’s still a regular. If she’s not bent herself she knows enough people who are, and she is good at what she does.

‘It’s my understanding that my client has already furnished your officers with the benefits of his professional advice,’ she says curtly, fixing Remus with the sort of beady-eyed stare that would have lesser men squirming like schoolboys. ‘Under the circumstances, I trust you have a pressing reason for hauling him in for questioning like some common criminal?’

Remus ignores her, allowing Alice to take care of the introductions. McGonagall’s trying to bait him, and he’s not going to be distracted from the task of cross-examining Black by getting into a row with his brief. Instead he makes a great show of sorting through the pile of photographs on the desk in front of him. He’d sooner not be the one interrogating Black, especially when they’ve got fuck-all on him, but he could scarcely object to Moody’s assignment without a very uncomfortable conversation.

‘Someone in your neck of the woods has been fencing goods from the Burkes job,’ says Remus, referring to one of the biggest thefts from a private collector in recent years. ‘A little bird tells me you’ve got some new stock in.’

Black leans back in his chair, looking supremely unconcerned. ‘This little birdie, did it have a search warrant?’

‘A warrant’s not much use when you’ve already shifted the gear,’ says Remus. ‘A camera, though… recognise this?’

He slides a picture across the desk, showing Sirius meeting with a local seller, one who they _had_ got a warrant for, and found with stolen property in his shop.

‘Aw, DS Lupin, I’m flattered,’ says Black. ‘But if you wanted something to _remember me_ by, I could’ve given you a much better picture. This one doesn’t show my best side.’

‘Oh, so you have one?

Alice coughs beside him, and it’s probably genuine rather than pointed, but Remus takes it as a timely reminder not to let himself get drawn into flirting with Black anyway. He straightens his tie, and manages to keep it professional. The interview progresses more-or-less as expected after that – Black admits to knowing Fletcher, and having done some restoration work for him in the past, but denies any recent dealings. He also claims never to have seen anything dodgy coming through his workshop, which is almost certainly a lie, but Remus contents himself with raising an eyebrow. It does the trick, as Black appears to grow frustrated with Remus’ refusal to react to his knowing glances and stream of double entendres.

It’s gratifying that Black’s the first to break, leaning across the desk to switch off the tape.

‘Let’s make a deal.’

Remus lifts his hand to reassure Alice that it’s fine to continue. ‘What do you have to offer?’

Black smirks, and it’s so infuriating and so sexy Remus could just about slap him. ‘Me,’ he says. ‘You let me off, and I’ll let you fuck me. I know you want to.’

Alice coughs again, and this time she’s definitely suppressing laughter. McGonagall has apparently developed selective hearing, calmly writing in her notepad and giving no visible sign that she might have heard her client attempt to bribe a police officer.

‘Is that all you’ve got to offer, sexual favours?’ asks Remus. ‘Looks like you’re preparing yourself for prison. Plenty of desperate men in there.’

Black shrugs, grinning. ‘Sounds fun.’

‘But I thought you were innocent,’ says Remus. ‘Aren’t you?’

Black leans back in, elbows on the desk and eyes boring into Remus’. ‘For you, I could be.’

They’re getting nowhere. Remus swallows heavily, straightens his tie, and turns the tape back on. It’ll take more than a bit of silly flirting to stop him doing his job.

#

As expected, Black’s released without charge, having provided only minimally useful information. He doesn’t say much, but the man has limited control of his emotional responses, despite how cool he thinks he is. His reaction to the names of some of Riddle’s mob – Lestrange, Malfoy, Pettigrew – confirmed Remus’ suspicions that the old rivalry between gangs still rumbles on and, whatever else Black might be up to, he wasn’t probably isn’t running with them.

They’ve other leads to work on, most coming from the raid on Mun Fletcher’s shop, and Remus still has seemingly ever-growing piles of paperwork to contend with. It’s late when he gets home, carrying take-away piri-piri chicken and scant hopes of staying awake for Newsnight. Tired and distracted, it’s perhaps not surprising he doesn’t notice anything suspicious when he finds the window wide open, pulling it shut with muttered disgruntlement at his past carelessness.

‘Nice one. Wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbours.’

Remus nearly drops the take-away carton as he spins around to see Sirius Black lounging against his bedroom door.

‘What the fuck are you doing in my flat?’

‘Tch, officer, that’s no sort of a welcome,’ says Sirius, pushing off the door jamb and sauntering towards Remus, all louche grace and insouciant sex appeal. ‘I came to make good on my promise.’

Remus rubs his head the way he does at work when he wants everyone to know he’s sick of their bullshit. It’s a gesture that says “you’re giving me a headache, kindly fuck off”. He hopes it’s convincing. 

‘Back at the station, I made certain… offers in exchange for my liberty,’ says Black. ‘As you can see, I am very much at large. And I’m a man of my word.’

He’s standing close enough that Remus can smell him, the fresh perspiration on his skin, expensive shampoo on his hair, and a mix of leather, smoke, and linseed oil from his clothes. Remus would like nothing better than to lean right in, inhale his scent, taste his skin. Fuck, why does everything about Black have to be so intoxicating?

‘You’re trespassing,’ says Remus, turning away. That way, it’s easier to resist the temptation to give Black exactly what he wants.

‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Black doesn’t sound the least bit worried. ‘I’m afraid I can’t promise to come quietly.’

‘How about you just leave quietly,’ said Remus, with a genuine bite of annoyance. ‘And quickly, too.’

Black affects a pout, and Remus prays to all the gods he doesn’t believe in for the strength to stop thinking about all the things he could do with that mouth.

‘That’s not very sociable, treacle,’ says Black. ‘Anyone would think we weren’t old friends.’

Remus sighs. Well, it’s not like he didn’t expect it to come to this.

‘So you do remember me,’ Black says.

‘Unfortunately,’ mutters Remus tersely. ‘I’m rather surprised that you remembered me.’

‘What, you think I’ve sucked off that many blokes I might have forgotten?’

Remus scoffs, to make it clear that’s exactly what he thinks.

‘Fair play,’ says Black good naturedly. ‘My peepers never fail, and nor does my memory. Comes in dead handy in my line of work. Art restoration, you know.’

He’s playing games, that much is obvious. What’s also clear is that the stakes are much, much higher for Remus.

‘Are you going to tell anyone?’

He wants to be shot of it, this power that Black has over him. Of course, it would only be his word against Remus’, and who would believe a chancer like Black anyway? Officially at least Remus might get away with it, but the whiff of scandal – of _gay sex scandal_ – won’t do his ambitions to make DI any favours.

Black looks thoughtful, and for once Remus thinks he’s genuinely considering the matter, rather than making a show of weighing up his options to make Remus sweat.

‘It’ll be just our little secret,’ he says at last, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of Remus’ mouth. The kiss is brief, dry, and surprisingly sweet. ‘Until next time.’

And just like that, he takes his leave, pausing only to wink at Remus before he climbs out of the window (treating Remus to a rather lovely view of his backside as he goes).

Alone at last, Remus takes several steadying breaths before he closes the window again, and goes to find a plate for his dinner. It’s a relief, he tells himself, that Black left so easily. Remus is in no hurry to see him again.

#

There are no more surprise visits or lewd drawings in the post from Black, but it still feels like he’s everywhere. Remus finds himself turning, again and again, to the photos they have of him on file, and his mind wanders back to the night Black appeared in his flat. He can’t stop himself fantasizing about what might have happened if he hadn’t turned Black down, all the things he might have done to him.

‘I need to get laid,’ says Remus when he wakes up at 3 a.m. in hot sweat and with an aching erection for the fourth night in a row. The next night he hits up a friendly bar, though it makes him feel old and a bit sad, and he remembers why he moved from keeping it casual to serial monogamy when he hit thirty. He sinks seven pints and goes back to West Hampstead with some boring dude who seems to be into him and Remus hopes that’s maybe enough, but the git kisses like he’s got a spare tongue in his mouth and his hands have all the erotic appeal of raw sausages. Against his better judgement – which, in all honesty, he washed away with pint number five – Remus closes his eyes and pictures Sirius Black lying over him instead as wotisface grapples with his flies. It’s enough to make him hard at least, though not to make him come, but mercifully Tedious of West Hampstead is out like a light after a half-hearted hand shandy, and Remus is left with the soundtrack of his nasal snoring while he contemplates his headache and poor life choices.

A few days later he goes through his address book, quaintly retro thing that it is. Benjy’s emigrated, Emmeline is engaged to a minicab driver, and Mary reckons she likes blokes a lot better now she’s stopped shagging them and moved in with some women she met at Pilates.

Well, it’s probably for the best. Relationships and sex are unnecessary complications at a time when Remus ought to be concentrating on his career. He resigns himself to some early nights, tucked up cosily with a milky tea and _Blackstone’s Guide to the Serious and Organised Crime and Police Act_ , and tries to ignore the part of his soul that’s screaming.

#

Another day, another tedious briefing session, and Operation Phoenix is hitting a series of brick walls. Moody’s always been a fan of following the money, something Remus respects, but so far all they’ve got is whispers and rumours that Riddle’s mob are using the art world to launder their ill-gotten gains. All of this everyone knows, and Remus doesn’t see much for it but a lot of old-fashioned grunt work, on the basis that if they turn over enough stones one of them should have something under it.

‘Lupin, a word,’ says Moody as they break up. Alice punches his arm in a go-get-‘em-tiger gesture, and Kingsley grins. Best of all, DS Snape looks sick with jealousy that Remus has been singled out. Remus follows Moody without a word – Moody’s not a fan of chit-chat – and waits until he’s spoken to.

‘What we need is some decent intel,’ says Moody. ‘A steady source.’

Remus nods. It’s something he’s realised himself, but Riddle’s mob are tight – and terrified of him. Getting any of them to turn grass is not going to be easy.

Moody produces a file, flips it open and slides it across the desk to Remus. The woman in the photographs looks familiar; Remus remembers meeting her the day he first visited Sirius Black.

‘Marlene McKinnon,’ says Moody. ‘She’s what you might call a fixer. Got her fingers in a lot of pies, and any dodgy dealer she doesn’t know probably isn’t worth knowing. We had quite the lengthy chat earlier in the week.’

‘And you want to sign her up as an informant?’ asks Remus, wondering where he comes in.

Moody shakes his head. ‘Naw, this one’s tough as nails. Damn near got herself sent down for a long stretch for giving one of Riddle’s lackies a Glasgow kiss and a bottle in the ribs. It was touch and go whether the little scrote would make it.’

‘But she didn’t,’ says Remus. ‘Go down for it, I mean?’

‘Watertight alibi, or close as,’ says Moody. ‘Some undated CCTV footage the café owner swears was from the night in question, the word of a few scumbags who could be bought off for the price of a bag of chips, and this fella: our very own local Leonardo.’

He turns the page, to show a photograph taken through a long lens, but clearly showing Sirius Black with McKinnon. ‘He’s the one we want,’ continues Moody.

Remus silently wonders what bad deeds he did in a previous life, and schools his face into a neutral expression. ‘Black’s not going to grass on McKinnon, though?’

‘Not on her, no, but he could be a way to getting some of her information,’ says Moody. ‘You been getting far with investigating him?’

‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ says Remus. ‘I haven’t come up with much.’

‘And you won’t,’ says Moody. ‘Either Black’s a bloody genius at covering his tracks, or he’s not really up to much. But he knows people – McKinnon and Fletcher, for starters – and I’ve a hunch he’s still nursing a grudge against the Riddle mob. McKinnon certainly is.’

Remus listens politely, and ends up agreeing to sound Black out. What else can he do?

#

He goes to visit Black alone. That’s perfectly normal, you don’t go in mob-handed when you’re trying to recruit an informant, but still Remus feels vaguely uncomfortable about it, like he’s up to something furtive. He’s crossed a line, agreeing to this without giving Moody any reason to believe he’s compromised, because he couldn’t stand the shame of disappointing his mentor. And because he _wants_ to be the one to approach Black.

There’s no answer to Remus’ knock, but the door isn’t locked, so he lets himself in. The workshop area is empty, but he can hear the sound of the shower running somewhere in the distance, leaving Remus a few moments to mooch about, looking at some of the sketches on the walls, until Black puts in an appearance.

He doesn’t do it by halves; Black emerges, apparently fresh from the shower, with his hair dripping wet and a towel slung low on his hips. Black looked good with his clothes on; now that he’s practically naked he could put Michelangelo's David in the shade, walking with a swagger and dripping with sin. Remus is only a mortal man; there’s only so much temptation he can stand.

‘Detective Sergeant Lupin, what a pleasant surprise,’ says Black, and somehow he even makes Remus’ name sound like a come-on. ‘Tell me now, did you come to arrest me or for trade?’

He offers his hands out in mock-surrender, as though expecting Remus to cuff him. In a moment of lust-induced madness he may never understand, Remus reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his handcuffs, and slaps one on Black’s left wrist, keeping a tight hold on the other. He’s still in shock at his own behaviour when Black uses his free hand to pull the towel off, holding it to one side like a matador’s cape before dropping it on the ground.

In an instant he’s wrapping himself around Remus, one long leg hooked behind Remus’ as their mouths crush together. There’s no time for thought, no hesitation, as Remus lets himself go, hands grabbing at Black; his arms, his chest, his back, his arse, as they dance an awkward backwards tango through the studio and into the bedroom. Remus barely registers what the room looks like, just the large wrought-iron bed with unmade covers that he pushes Black onto backwards.

Black kisses like it’s the last thing he might ever do, deep and perfect, and Remus could just about allow Black to eat him whole. He looks wonderfully debauched flat on his back, wet tendrils of hair framing his face while he looks up at Remus with a gleeful mixture of mischief and lust. Remus pins Black’s arms above his head and then, better yet, fastens the spare ring of his handcuffs to the headboard, shackling Black to the bed.

‘Kink –’ Black begins, but Remus cuts him off with a kiss, letting his tongue explore that wicked, longed-for mouth. Black’s a writhing, gasping mess as Remus works his way down his body, hands roving over Black’s chest like he’s committing every millimetre to memory, lips and teeth nipping, touching, tasting his marble-perfect skin. He’s still wearing far too many clothes himself, though, absurdly overdressed in his thoroughly sensible Marks & Sparks suit.

Remus props himself up on his knees, tossing his jacket behind him and risking garrotting himself in his haste to tug off his tie. Black seems equally keen to divest Remus of his clothing, his free hand grappling with Remus’ belt. He’s less elegant now; his fingernails – still bearing tell-tale paint stains – fumble with the fastening.

‘Patience, you tart,’ says Remus, displaying precious little of that virtue himself as he risks every button in his haste to remove his shirt.

‘Aw, c’mon, sergeant, show me your truncheon.’

Remus pauses, half-in and half-out of his shirt. ‘This is no time for shit jokes,’ he says.

‘If you say so,’ says Black, with a seductive roll of his hips. ‘Reckon it’s time for you to stop rabbiting and fuck me.’

It’s intoxicating, the sight of this exquisite man sprawled out before him, muscles taut and perfectly defined and, in the arm raised above Sirius’ head, straining against the handcuffs Remus used to tether him to the bed. Sirius displays himself like an advertisement for carnality and it’s a glorious thing to see, but even better is the frantic edge to his behaviour now, the knowledge that he’s losing his cool, that Remus is making him lose it.

Finally liberated from his clothes, Remus rummages through the bedside table for condoms and lube, finding multiple brands tucked between tissue boxes and packs of wet wipes. Of course, Sirius would be well-supplied, wouldn’t he? Remus isn’t sure if he really is a Tom, but he knows how easily Sirius uses sex as a bargaining chip, a means to an end. How many other men has he offered himself up to as a diversion, or bribe, some form of fuck pro quo?

One way or another Remus will end up paying for it too, but right now he doesn’t care. It’s good to give in to temptation. His desire for Sirius has reached a vertigo rush, and there’s no force on Earth that could talk him down from jumping.

‘On your knees,’ he says, issuing a sharp slap to Sirius’ hip to underline the command.

Sirius looks altogether too pleased with himself as he rolls over, but the metallic clink of handcuffs locking him to the headboard is strangely satisfying. The sight of Sirius presenting his arse, round and perfect and ready for Remus to enjoy, is even better.

‘I’m glad to see you’ve showered,’ says Remus, trying to sound cool as he shoves two lubed fingers into Black’s arsehole. It’s important he retains some degree of control. ‘Knowing what a slut you are, Black, I half expected to find someone else’s load up here.’

‘Slutty’s good,’ says Black, pushing back onto him. ‘Like sticking your fingers up someone’s arse when you’re not on first name terms.’

Remus twists his fingers, angling to brush against Black’s prostate. His other hand rests on Black’s back, and he can feel the gasp Sirius inhales. ‘Like that, _Sirius_?’

In a distant recess of his mind Remus knows there’s some significance to what Black – Sirius – said about his name, but he’ll unpack it later. Right now he’s busy taking Sirius apart, sliding his fingers back and forth as slow as he can manage, desperately restraining the urge to shove his dick into Sirius and plough him raw.

He’s trembling as he unwraps the condom, having to wipe excess lube from his hand onto Sirius’ thigh. Remus closes his eyes as he rolls it down his cock, because even that touch combined with the side of Sirius, arse up and slick with lube, ready for Remus’ cock, might be too much for him.

‘Get on with it,’ mutters Sirius, gratifyingly impatient. If Remus hadn’t surrendered most of his own self-control he might have liked to tease him, to relish the just desserts of Sirius being rendered frantic and needy. He’s too eager himself now, and thrusts into Sirius’ warm and wanting body with undue haste, more passion than precision.

Sirius’ come-ons are reduced to breathy sobs as Remus fucks him, interspersed with pleas for _more_ , _harder_ , and _please_. Sweat beads on Remus’ brow, his lungs are hot in his chest, but he feels triumphant, like he’s head of the pack, running a race he knows he’s going to win. He pushes Sirius’ head down, pressing him into the pillow and making the handcuff around his wrist clank, but lets him use his free hand to wank himself off. Remus is too busy pounding his perfectly snug arse to do anything about it himself. Sirius cries out, a hot splatter of come decorating the bed sheets as Remus buries himself balls-deep, thrusting into Sirius again and again, until he’s gasping with exertion as he comes.

Afterwards, Remus feels light-headed and fuzzily satisfied. He’s still on an endorphin high, wandering half-blind though the vacant space between doing the deed and the guilt crash to come. When he’s got his breath back he goes through a methodical post-shag routine; tying off and chucking the condom, dabbing around with tissues, and carefully retrieving and pulling back on his clothes, wincing at the uncomfortable pull of fabric over skin still tacky with sweat.

It’s hard to look at Sirius, lounging idly as Remus retrieves the key and unshackles him from the bed, guilt swirling like the first rumbles of indigestion in his stomach as he puts the handcuffs back into his pocket. Sirius makes no effort to cover or clean himself up, just watches Remus through lidded eyes, drowsily self-satisfied.

Remus fastens his tie, and turns to face Sirius directly again. ‘This can’t happen again,’ is all he can manage.

Sirius props himself up on his elbow, grinning at Remus. ‘Oh, I think it can.’


	2. Chapter 2

‘Right then, Sarge, I’ve got witness statements, custody logs, SOCO’s reports – mind you finish your breakfast first, they’re not pretty – and a bunch of fuzzy stuff that no-one’s ever bothered to upload onto the PNC,’ says Alice, greeting Remus with an impressive array of paperwork.

Remus nods his thanks, cramming the last of his egg banjo into his mouth and washing it down with a swig of just drinkable canteen coffee. ‘And it’s not even my birthday.’

Alice grins back at him. ‘Gonna steal you something special from the morgue for that,’ she says. ‘Where do you want to start with this lot?’

‘Let’s start with the fuzzy shit,’ says Remus. It makes sense, since they’re not actually investigating the murders of Lily and James Potter – Remus hopes there might be more information about Sirius Black in there, something that didn’t seem important enough to be included on Black’s own record. 

‘I was hoping you might say that,’ Alice tells him as she sits down, unfolding a notebook covered in her own swirling handwriting. ‘I’ve been digging around the family histories for gossip already.’

‘Found anything?’

‘Bits. Hard to say if any of it’s useful,’ says Alice. ‘We already knew Black had been involved with the Potter lot, but they were a family firm. What we’ve got on his record is mostly about the firm aspect; makes sense, since it was one of their jobs that landed him in the Young Offenders. But I thought maybe the family side might help you more.’

Remus nods, hoping he looks polite and relaxed. It’s very, very important that Alice doesn’t get any hint of how skin-crawlingly mortified the subject of Sirius Black makes him. She’s acting normally enough, hasn’t asked any awkward questions, so it seems Remus is doing a decent enough job of holding it together. So far, so good.

‘Go on,’ he says. 

‘It’s mostly just odds and ends,’ says Alice. ‘I checked out the address Black gave when he was a student at St Martins – the property was owned by Monty Potter, and he listed Mia Potter as his next of kin, even though his own parents were still alive. Oh, and guess who Mia Potter went to school with?’ 

‘No idea,’ admits Remus.

‘Minerva McGonagall,’ says Alice proudly. ‘You know she’s looked after all the Potters?’

It’s true that McGonagall has accompanied Sirius Black on his numerous visits to the Yard, and there was no sign he’d ever used the firm Alphard Black employed since taking over his restoration business. 

‘She’s the family brief,’ says Remus. ‘Which means Sirius Black wasn’t just an associate; he was part of the family.’

Alice nods. ‘Black tries to make out he’s a free agent, but we already suspected he was nursing a grudge against Riddle’s lot. Looks like it might run deeper than old rivalry.’

Remus is inclined to agree. He remembers Moody telling him how Black helped cover for McKinnon after she assaulted one of Riddle’s flunkies, and the way Black tensed up whenever Remus had mentioned the names of Riddle’s associates during their interview. The statement Black had given when he was questioned over the murders of Lily and James Potter had been virtually incomprehensible; the custody officer had ordered a mental health assessment, which had never happened. Despite the initial mass of circumstantial evidence against him, Black had been released after he turned out to have been in custody at the time of the murders. Remus couldn’t help but smile at the strange twist of fate that meant it had been DS Snape who had done Black a favour by arresting him for soliciting in the first place. He’d got out of that without charge as well.

‘It was never business,’ says Remus. ‘It’s personal for him. That’s why he’s never moved on to anything that matters; he hasn’t stayed small-time because he hasn’t got the bottle to move into the big game, he’s biding his time.’

Alice seems to agree. ‘You think he wants revenge.’

He wouldn’t be the first, and it _could_ be a good angle to reel in a nark – plenty of villains turned informant to settle a score as much as to save their own skins. Trouble is, if their theory’s correct then Black possibly knows less about the inner workings of Riddle’s gang than Moody’s hoping, and he’s probably got his own plan to get even already.

Whatever personal difficulties dealing with Black might present to Remus notwithstanding.

‘I think so,’ says Remus. ‘Whether I can use it as leverage to get Black to talk is another matter.’

‘Can’t you just flutter your eyelashes at him and promise to re-open the murder investigation?’ suggests Alice cheekily.

Remus forces himself to adopt a mock-disapproving expression. It’s a joke, she’s joking. The idea of good old DS Lupin messing about with a known con is funny ha-ha.

‘What?’ Alice teases, continuing in a sing-song voice, ‘He likes you.’

‘He’s a wind-up merchant,’ says Remus, which is true at least. ‘Anyway, I don’t think we’re quite so hard up for grasses that Moody’s about to start pimping me out.’

‘At least he’s fit,’ says Alice. ‘Imagine trying to honey trap someone like Mun Fletcher.’

The thought of getting friendly with the dodgy shopkeeper is enough to make Remus wince for real. 

‘Thanks,’ he tells Alice. ‘Just for that, you can spent the rest of the morning helping Kingsley double check Fletcher’s account books.’

Alice rolls her eyes as she gets to her feet. ‘The cut and thrust of modern policing,’ she says. ‘Times like this I think I might as well have become an accountant.’

Remus just smiles and promises her the chance to come along when he goes to see Dolohov about some of his old deals at Wandsworth later in the week. For now, he’s going to make the most of a chance to get to know more about Sirius Black without distraction.

#

It’s an unremarkable Tuesday morning, the weather grey and humid, when Remus arrives at work to be greeted by the news that somehow DS Snape has obtained a warrant to search the retail premises of Black’s Fine Art Restoration & Conservation, and has already trotted off with a handful of woodentops to do fuck knows what damage to the art side of the investigation. Kingsley and Alice are both out, chatting to collectors up West, and Moody’s in a meeting with the top brass, so Remus has nothing to stop him running off Hoxton with a bee in his bonnet and his tongue between his teeth.

When he arrives at the shop it’s clear he’s not far behind Snape, who is in the middle of the shop floor, directing a couple of DC’s and a small group of uniformed officers. Sirius Black stands in front of the counter, arms folded across his chest. The expression on his face is haughty and bored, but his foot is tapping on the ground, suggesting he’s more tense than he’d like to let on.

‘DS Lupin, how good of you to join us,’ says Snape. It wouldn’t be professional to ask him outright what he thinks he’s doing, not in front of uniform. Most likely he’s playing silly beggars, making out that Remus might have missed something. At best he’s on a fishing expedition, not that he’s likely to find anything – his warrant only covers the shop, not the flat or studio upstairs, and it’s unlikely Black would have stashed anything there unless he really did come down in the last shower.

Remus limits his response to a curt nod, and focuses on watching the search. Someone’s already been through the till, several box files of paperwork from behind the counter, and the display samples of different frames. Now most of the officers are rifling through the stacks of paintings leaning against the walls, as well as the ones that are hanging on display. Snape pulls a large crate onto the counter and starts unpacking it, turning his nose up as he pulls out a collection of vivid and explicit homoerotic prints.

‘Is this is supposed to be art?’ says Snape, his upper lip curling back in a sneer, revealing a flash of yellowing teeth. Sometimes Remus wonders if the man deliberately makes himself look as unpleasant as possible, as some sort of statement of Northern pride, a real man’s stand against metrosexual grooming.

‘Don’t tell me, you wouldn’t put it up in your living room.’ Sirius rolls his eyes. ‘The recognition every artist craves: whether some dreary little oil-faced rozzer will hang their painting up in his naff magnolia semi, between the DFS sofa and the widescreen telly.’

Snape snorts, his nostrils flaring, but doesn’t take the bait and continues going through the prints, apparently grimly determined not to appear shocked or embarrassed by the sight of large and lovingly painted cocks on display.

‘See anything you fancy?’ asks Sirius, leaning towards Snape, his voice a low, mocking imitation of a seductive purr. 

‘Hardly,’ says Snape. ‘I’ll leave the filth for your sort.’

‘My sort?’ Sirius is practically grinning now, eager for a fight. ‘Why don’t you come right out with it and call me a poof?’

Snape shoots him a dangerous look. ‘So you can start bawling about how I’ve hurt your feelings with hate speech? I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Besides, you’ve generously given us so many reasons to find you contemptible without our having to worry about who you drop your drawers for. However often.’

‘Of course, the modern Met’s as all-inclusive as a fortnight at Sharm El Sheikh,’ says Sirius. ‘Isn’t your boss a dyke called Dick? It’s political correctness gone mad.’

Remus stifles a laugh, not well enough to escape Snape’s attention. Ignoring the poisonous glare Snape shoots in his direction, Remus strides across the shop and addresses him with studied politeness. ‘A moment of your time, DS Snape.’

Snape doesn’t look too happy about it, but he follows Remus to the door of the shop, away from the throng of officers conducting the search. Sirius makes a great show of waving Snape goodbye, then blows Remus a kiss for good measure. Remus pretends not to notice.

‘What are you looking for?’ Remus asks. ‘And why wasn’t I informed?’

Snape huffs as though Remus were an irritating underling and not of equal rank. ‘I received urgent intelligence that Black’s got controlled substances on the premises,’ he says. ‘There wasn’t time to consult you before your arty-farty fan club over there flushed it.’

‘What urgent intelligence?’ says Remus, well used to avoiding being drawn by Snape’s personal slights.

‘Anonymous tip-off,’ admits Snape.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Remus swears under his breath. ‘Black’s our best shot at getting information about who is producing counterfeit art works for Riddle. Could you _not_ piss him off because some Crimewatch nutter reckons he’s got a few grams of coke under the counter?

Snape looks set to retort, but before he can get to it they’re interrupted by shouting coming from inside the shop. Remus is faster, and soon sees Sirius being held back by a couple of uniformed officers as he screams the place down about the limits of the search warrant. Beyond him a couple of DCs are checking out the stairs which must lead to the studio space above the shop. They’ve pulled something out of a cubby hole by the stairs and are bringing it into the shop for closer inspection.

‘Get your filthy fucking hands off that,’ says Sirius with a vicious snarl. There’s nothing cool or mocking about him now; he looks beside himself with rage.

Instinctively, Remus moves towards him, allowing Snape to side-step him and get to what all the fuss is about; it’s a bundle of sketchbooks, old and tattered, with dozens of photographs and loose sheaves of paper sticking out. Remus reaches out and places a steadying hand on Sirius’ forearm, hoping to calm him, or at least stop him spiralling into an even greater rage.

‘Relax,’ says Remus in his most calmly authoritative voice, as he places himself between Sirius and Snape’s crew, holding up the palm of his hand in front of Sirius’ chest. Sirius stops struggling, and stays where he is when Remus gestures for the uniformed officers to release him, but the expression on his face is murderous.

‘Now, what do we have here?’ says Snape as he turns the pages in one of the sketchbooks. Upside down and at a bad angle, it’s hard for Remus to decipher exactly what the drawings are, but two of the subjects are easily recognisable as Lily and James Potter.

‘Don’t you fucking touch that,’ shouts Sirius. He’s holding himself back from throwing a punch at Snape, but only just. His hands are clenched into fists, his arms shaking with barely-restrained rage. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

‘Maybe we’ll take them down to the station,’ says Snape, who is clearly enjoying himself immensely. ‘I’m sure DS Lupin, as our resident art expert, would like to have a proper look.’

Sirius starts towards Snape, looking like he’s all set to take a swing at him, but Remus manages to hold him back.

‘Let me handle this,’ Remus hisses into Sirius’ ear. ‘You go running your mouth off now and it’ll be months before you get those sketchbooks back out of police evidence. Now button it.’

Sirius is practically growling, but he does keep still.

‘This search is concluded,’ Remus announces to the rest of the room. ‘Everyone outside. Now.’

The assembled officers, detectives and uniform alike, shoot uncomfortable glances between him and Snape, but Remus knows he’s the more popular of the two and under the circumstances he’s prepared to rely on it. Snape must be livid, but he’s got sense enough to avoid a stand-up row about it, because he doesn’t say anything until the other officers have departed.

‘I’ll just bag these up and be on my way,’ Snape says curtly, indicating the pile of sketchbooks on the counter. ‘I’ll leave you to your very important investigative hugging of repeat offenders.’

Very deliberately not looking at Sirius, Remus turns back to the counter and places his hand over the top sketchbooks. ‘The warrant didn’t cover the stairs, so let’s save ourselves the grief of a complaint from his brief,’ he says. ‘We all know how McGonagall never passes up an opportunity to cause trouble.’

‘I know how you love to make yourself the centre of attention,’ says Snape. ‘I’m sure DCI Moody will be interested to know that you’ve got enough free time to interfere with my work.’

That’s a bit rich, considering Snape himself is supposed to be working on a completely different part of the investigation, but it’s hardly surprising.

‘Has Moody not told you he asked me to recruit Black as an informant?’ asks Remus with fake pleasantness. He can hear Sirius’ derisive snort behind him but pays him no mind, focusing instead on the frustration on Snape’s sour-milk features. Snape’s made a mess of this, and he knows it.

‘You must be a bit concerned about what he’ll have to say about all this,’ says Remus, dropping his voice so that only Snape can hear him. ‘Undermining another officer’s investigation, alienating a potential nark, breaching the terms of your own warrant… still, I’m sure we can salvage something from this shit show.’

Snape looks angry enough to spit. ‘And what have you contributed, hm? Apart from playing the knight in shining armour for your pet Tom, of course.’

‘I’m doing you a favour,’ says Remus. ‘Jog on, and you can spin this as some good cop/bad cop ruse when Moody wants explanations. Should keep the yelling about another fucking omnishambles to a minimum.’

He’s sailing close to the wind, basically gloating like this, but Remus can’t bring himself to care. Snape doesn’t deign to answer him, just pushes past Remus on his way out.

‘Have fun crying into your memory book,’ Snape hisses to Sirius as he heads for the door, empty handed.

‘Why you little – ’ Sirius starts for Snape again, but Remus grabs him and pulls him back, manhandling Sirius back behind the counter as the doorbell jangles, singing out Snape’s departure. Sirius doesn’t put up much of a fight as Remus drags him through the back door. There’s precious little space at the foot of the stairs, and Remus shoves Sirius up against the wall, acutely aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the tense energy that seems to radiate out of his every pore.

Anger suits Sirius; it seems more real, more pure than his arch mockery or ostentatiously camp displays of exaggerated flirtation. Now Sirius is beautiful and furious, a warrior saint without a sword, a Baroque vision of Michael ready to slay the serpent. Remus can hear Sirius’ breath coming in rapid gasps; he’s close enough to feel the damp heat of it on his face.

Remus should say or do something to calm Sirius down, shake him out of this state before he gets himself into any more trouble, but there’s something about him that Remus finds irresistible. He’s kissing Sirius before he has time to think better of it, holding onto Sirius’ wrists, with his arms splayed out against the wall. 

Sirius bucks against him, wordlessly pushing his hips forwards to grind against Remus. His breathing is still ragged, but it sounds needy now, and Remus can sense how much Sirius is wanting, longing for something, and perhaps right now it’s him.

Loosening his grip on Sirius’ wrists, Remus lets his hands travel up Sirius’ arms, across his shoulders, down his chest. He can feel the tension in Sirius’ muscles, the kinetic energy straining for release. 

‘Let’s go –’ Remus begins, wanting to go somewhere he can get Sirius naked, to let himself properly enjoy the exquisite form of Sirius’ body. Nothing else - the investigation, all that petty bickering with Snape, his entire career - matters so much right now.

‘Shut up,’ Sirius interrupts him, already sliding his hands around the waistband of Remus’ trousers, making short work of unfastening his belt. Sirius’ thumbs flick the buckle open with practiced ease, like he’s done this a thousand times before – which, of course, he probably has.

So that’s how they do it, rutting up against each other by the wall, like a pair of teenagers. It’s quick and messy, awkward, and they could do with some lube, but Remus can’t think of a single reason to stop. Sirius’ cock feels warm and heavy in his hand, and just this once Remus can make do with an early trickle of come and the spit in his palm.

Sirius is making wonderful, desperate gasping sounds, like he can’t get enough of Remus touching him. Remus would like to kiss him again, but he likes listening to Sirius, so he presses his mouth the crook of Sirius’ neck, where the skin is so soft and perfect Remus can’t resist sinking his teeth into it, just a little nip. He lets his tongue swirl over Sirius’ shoulder, pushing aside the flimsy fabric of his artfully torn t-shirt to taste the salt sheen of his sweat. Sirius’ hand is warm and rough around his cock, a tight fit for Remus to fuck into as he grasps Sirius’ dick and jerks him off in return.

It only seems to take a few minutes of frenzied, inelegant thrusting until Sirius climaxes with a grunt, low and animal, his come coating Remus’ cock in a splatter of wet heat. It feels dirty and wonderful, easing the transit of Remus’ cock as he thrusts into Sirius’ fist, quick-quick-hard, until he comes too, biting down on his bottom lip as he buries his face in Sirius’ shoulder.

‘Fuck,’ mutters Remus as he stumbles back, cock hanging out of his boxers, trousers at half-mast. He already feels sticky and awkward.

‘Technically we didn’t quite make it this time,’ says Sirius. The trademark grin is back on his face, like he’s spilt his anger and frustration along with his load, and he’s back to his arrogant, infuriating self. He says “this time” like it’s a regular thing.

‘Does that mean I get a discount?’ says Remus. It’s a crass joke, the sort that would normally be beneath him, but Sirius gets under his skin like that, and he feels awkward in a stupid way standing there with his trousers round his knees and spunk cooling on his thighs.

Sirius lifts his chin and glares at Remus as he zips up his jeans, his expression imperious, then walks back out into the shop without a word. Remus pulls his trousers back up and follows after him, not sure yet whether he wants to smooth things over or start a proper fight. Either choice gives way to curiosity, though, when he sees Sirius poring over a book on the counter.

‘What are you here for anyway?’ asks Sirius, not bothering to look up.

‘It’s like I said. My boss, DCI Moody, wants me to recruit you as a police informant.’

Sirius lets out a snort of derisive laughter. ‘Me, a grass?’ he says. ‘I’d rather die.’

Remus takes another step closer and stands beside Sirius. He’s turning the pages over in the one of the sketchbooks that set him off earlier. There are drawings of various members of the Potter family, and a few other people, most of whom Remus doesn’t recognise. There are photos too, taped to some of the pages. One looks like a wedding photo, with Lily and James Potter beaming into the camera while Sirius stands between them, one arm draped over each of their shoulders, laughing. He looks so young, and so happy, and Remus realises with a start that none of the times he’s seen Sirius smile have indicated any sort of joy.

‘What if we could catch them?’ asks Remus, deliberately keeping his voice low, like he’s approaching a dangerous animal. ‘The people who killed your friends. You must know something that could help us find them. We always thought it was something from the same gang we’re investigating now.’

‘Sure, I’d sing like a canary,’ says Sirius. ‘ _If_.’

There’s no need for Sirius to spell out how certain he is that the police will never bring the murderers of Lily and James Potter to justice.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Remus.

‘What for?’

 _What indeed?_ Remus thinks to himself with a sting of self-reproach. _That your friends are dead? I’m sorry you’re unhappy? For using you for cheap thrills? That even now all I can think about his how much I want to feel your cock in my mouth?_

He really needs to work on clawing back some of his professionalism.

‘I should get going,’ is the best Remus can manage.

‘Looking like that?’ Sirius’ eyes flitter up and down Remus’ body, though this time he’s indicating the sorry state of Remus’ trousers rather than any desire for his body.

‘Yeah, I might pop home before I head back to the Yard,’ says Remus, resisting the temptation to cover himself up. Sirius, he notes, still looks amazing.

‘Don’t be daft, your gaff’s miles past,’ says Sirius, packing away his collection of sketchbooks. ‘Come upstairs and get yourself sorted.’

Remus dutifully follows Sirius upstairs. He draws the line at borrowing a spare pair of pants, but he’s glad of the use of a flannel and a bar of soap. He’s not above a spot of snooping around either, so when he emerges from the bathroom to find Sirius isn’t lying in wait, he takes the opportunity to wander out into Sirius’ studio space to have a little look at what he’s working on.

He goes past a half-cleaned sentimental landscape that Sirius probably hates and a vacuum-suction table holding a Gustave Doré illustration, to the only table with any actual paint on it. It looks like Sirius has been testing something, or perhaps just practicing; a collection of small canvases are laid out in a row, each one bearing Impressionist-style brush strokes in various shades of pink, fluffy cloud markings like the evening sky. Each is slightly different – Remus doesn’t have quite enough technical knowledge to understand what it is that sets each one apart, but he can tell that Sirius is looking for a particular effect.

There’s a thick folder at the side of the desk, which is probably full of reference pictures, but something else catches Remus’ eye. He doesn’t get a chance to properly check out the article about Cornelius Gurlitt ripped from an Art History journal before Sirius reappears.

‘Have you forgotten what I said about that warrant, treacle?’ asks Sirius. ‘You’re not allowed to go poking around my workspace.’

‘Just being nosy,’ says Remus, indicated the row of paint samples. ‘Have you been practicing?’

‘The exciting life of a restorer,’ says Sirius, casually leading Remus away from the desk. ‘I have to test out a lot of pigment combinations before I find the perfect match.’

Remus just nods, wondering why Sirius is making such lacklustre efforts to cover his tracks, leaving evidence lying around and telling such obvious lies. The style of brushwork on those samples is distinctive enough to be recognised by anyone with a passing knowledge of art, and the magazine article about Nazi art theft clinches it. Remus can’t be sure, but there is a painting which contains elements like the ones Sirius has been practicing, though Remus has ever seen a colour image of it. If Remus is right, the work in question hasn’t been seen for 80 years, and Sirius is about as likely to have it in for a brush and polish as he is to see the beasts on the Doré drawing come to life and fly about his studio.

 _If_. Remus isn’t certain yet; he needs to revise his art history.

#

Back at the Yard, Remus carefully dodges Snape’s filthy looks and Alice’s casual digging for gossip in favour of testing his hunch, and he’s pretty certain he’s right. He looks up every grainy, poorly lit photo in existence of Van Gogh’s lost painting, _The Lovers: The Poet's Garden IV_ , unseen since it was stolen 1937 as part of the Nazi purge of “degenerate” art. The photos are all in black-and-white, but the style of the brushwork is just like that in the sample canvases Remus found in Sirius’ studio.

The notion that Sirius might be working on a forgery isn’t that unlikely; he’s never been convicted, but he almost certainly has forged artworks before, and Remus recalls Sirius' contempt for poor quality attempts at Impressionism. A lost Van Gogh would be worth extraordinary amounts of money, enough to make the potential danger of discovery well worth the risk. True, Sirius probably doesn’t need the money, though Remus suspects he’d enjoy the challenge.

On the surface, it seems like a good fit – an audacious project that only a very talented artist could pull off. But there are just too many bits that don’t add up. Why would Sirius be doing this now? He’s never worked on anything major on his own, and pulling off a big con would suggest he’s moving on, which is at odds with Remus’ earlier hypothesis that he’s obsessed with retribution for the Potters’ deaths. And Remus really can’t see why Sirius would leave all the clues practically lying out on a plate for him.

There has to be more to it. Remus will just have to dig a little deeper.

#

Several times a year Remus attends meetings at the Royal Academy, a sort of community outreach for the art world. In theory getting to chat with a mix of practicing artists and curators should be interesting, and sometimes it is, but in practice there’s only so much time he can spend talking politely with very posh people over (admittedly quite nice) coffee and organic cakes before he starts to get restless. He’s glad of the chance to get up and stretch his legs once it’s over, and since he has no pressing commitments decides to treat himself to a stroll around the galleries. It’s been too long since he had the chance to actually enjoy art, rather than just examining it in a professional capacity.

The temporary exhibition on _Painting the Modern Garden_ makes him think of Sirius; partially due to the memory of the forgery he suspects Sirius of attempting, but mostly because Sirius is in the gallery himself, sitting with his hair tumbling into his face as he sketches. Remus is pondering whether it would be prudent simply to move on when Sirius looks up at him and smiles.

‘Hello, treacle,’ he says. ‘Fancy seeing you here. You come here often?’

Remus tuts rather than answering, but goes to sit beside Sirius on the bench, curious to see what he’s been drawing. The open page is covered with drawings of flowers, roses and peonies, with flourishes of foliage. Remus has noticed the plants and vases of flowers around the gallery for visitors to draw and paint, though he never would’ve guessed Sirius would join the amateur scribblers and schoolchildren who do so.

‘Tidy,’ says Remus, an understatement since Sirius’ work is actually very good. ‘Although I can’t see what scurrilous criminal purpose they might serve.’

Sirius laughs softly. ‘It’s relaxing,’ he says, turning back over the pages he’s clearly filled that day. There’s a piece containing two of the plants in the room which looks pretty decent to Remus’ eyes, but makes Sirius frown. ‘I never was much good at composition.’

He starts packing up, putting his sketchbook into a bag that’s been lying on the floor by his feet, tidying away his pencils. Remus is a little disappointed; he would’ve quite liked to sit and watch Sirius draw.

‘You could be casing the joint,’ says Remus. ‘Perhaps I even interrupted you mid-heist.’

‘Damn, you’re right,’ says Sirius. ‘I was going to lob my putty eraser at the fire alarm and then make the most of the confusion to steal a painting. By the time they’d evacuated the building I’d’ve been off on my toes with a Kandinsky stuffed down my trousers.’

Remus chuckles at the image. ‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ he says. ‘I’d have been forced to investigate, and I’ve always thought Kandinsky was overrated. My early 20th Century tutor was obsessed with the bastard; I’d rather not be reminded.’

‘Yes, I’ve got a degree in Art History,’ he says when Sirius raises his eyebrow. ‘Not everyone on the force is a complete moron, you know.’

‘Never said you were,’ replies Sirius. ‘I just didn’t realise they had universities in Wales.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Remus, nudging Sirius’ shoulder. ‘I went to Birkbeck, actually. Part-time, after I joined the Met. Took me six years.’

‘Aren’t you the busy little bee?’ says Sirius, but he’s smiling at Remus like he doesn’t really think it’s a bad thing. ‘I’m sure you’ve got it on file that I dropped out half-way through my second year. A life of crime – I mean, running a legitimate restoration business – is so demanding.’

He’s joking, but Remus feels a little sad for the opportunities Sirius has missed – or squandered. ‘You could go back,’ he suggests. ‘Finish your degree.’

‘You’re not my probation officer,’ says Sirius, getting to his feet. ‘Come on, if you really want to improve me, you can share the benefits of your historical expertise. Or we can compete to find the most metaphors for wanking, your choice.’

They wander around together, chatting amiably about the works on display. Remus isn’t the least surprised that Sirius is well informed about a wide variety of artists, but he’s pleased to occasionally dredge up the odd nugget of information that Sirius didn’t already know. Talking about art makes Sirius curiously both more relaxed and more animated than usual, a contradiction which suits him well. Remus is glad when Sirius accepts his offer to buy him lunch in the café without any untoward remarks, and purposely avoids wasting any mental energy thinking about how much the whole thing feels like a date.

‘So what’s your excuse?’ says Sirius as he adds overpriced crisps to his overpriced sandwich. ‘Someone with your artistic temperament has no business being a Plod.’

‘I’ll leave the artistic temperament to you,’ says Remus. ‘Anyway, I like art but I never had any talent for it. I like police work too. It feels good, helping people, making the world a safer place.’

Sirius laughs and throws a crust at him. ‘You are such a liar,’ he says. ‘I think you like the excitement.’

‘Art galleries are exciting?’ Remus raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s not a popular opinion.’

‘Fuck popular.’ Sirius shrugs. ‘It’s true and you know it. It’s like… did you read the Narnia books?’

‘Yes,’ says Remus, spearing his poached egg with a fork and wondering where Sirius is going with this one.

‘My favourite part was the wood between worlds. You know, the forest with the ponds for travelling to different universes,’ says Sirius. ‘Anyone who has a bit of something about them needs somewhere like that. For some people it’s libraries or the cinema, for me it was always art museums.’

‘Weird, I was so sure you were going to say crime syndicates,’ says Remus, although he’s rather charmed by the image of a young Sirius, bright-eyed and eager, dashing about Tate Modern or the V&A, looking for adventure behind the paint.

‘Up yours,’ says Sirius. ‘Every painting, every sculpture is a window onto another world, it’s exciting. _That’s_ why you like art. You’re a thrill seeker.’

Remus chuckles, but shuffles in his seat. The conversation is taking an uncomfortable turn. ‘I’m a what now?’

‘You like excitement.’ Sirius drops his voice and leans across the table. ‘That’s why you left the Valleys – ’

‘– the Valleys are in South Wales,’ Remus interrupts him. ‘I’m actually from Caernarfon, do you even know where that is, you ignorant English twat? The other end of the country.’

‘It’s also boring, that’s why you live in London now,’ said Sirius with a wave of his hand. ‘And it’s why you joined the Old Bill, because you love the thrill of the chase. Speaking of which… it’s also why you like consorting with known criminals.’

Remus doesn’t much care for being analysed at the best of times, especially when there’s a chance some of it might be right.

‘Shut up,’ he says, throwing down his napkin. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Sirius grins wickedly and gets to his feet. ‘I know just the place.’

When they leave the Academy he surprises Remus by heading not, as Remus expected, towards the seedy delights of Soho, but towards the rather more salubrious streets of Mayfair.

‘Don’t tell me, you’ve got a suite at the Ritz,’ says Remus as he walks besides Sirius.

‘Gave it up, that gaudy shit is naff as anything,’ says Sirius. ‘This is class.’

“This” is a discrete, understated building that Remus might have mistaken for a private home rather than a hotel if not for the single, simple illuminated sign reading “Luminescence” in soft silver-blue light. Sirius leads him inside, to what must be the lobby, but looks nothing like the Premier Inns and Crowne Plazas Remus is more familiar with. It’s decorated like an ultramodern take on a Victorian naturalist’s study, all dark wood, carpet as deep and soft as moss, and sumptuous leather wing backed chairs. Here and there are tastefully quirky scientific curiosities; flasks of glowing luminol, or something looking like it, Ernst Haeckel-style illustrations of jellyfish, and mineral samples, lit by unseen blacklights, seeming to glow under bell jars.

Sirius strides confidently across the lobby, greeting the receptionist with a cheery wave as he goes. Strutting about like you own the place is a great skill for con men, and one that clearly comes naturally to Sirius. He doesn’t actually speak until they’re in the lift, when he pulls a keycard out of his pocket.

‘Staff pass,’ he says, grinning.

‘Do I even want to know?’ asks Remus.

The door slides open, silent and smooth.

‘Sucked off one of the doormen,’ says Sirius.

‘Of course you did,’ mutters Remus, but he follows him anyway. For some reason hearing about Sirius’ sexual exploits isn’t so exciting this time.

The room Sirius takes him to doesn’t have a number on the door, just a solid brass firefly. Sirius doesn’t stop to knock or check if the room is already occupied before opening the door and pulling Remus in behind him. Thankfully the room appears to be empty, or at least Remus doesn’t spot anyone else before Sirius pushes him against the wall and kisses him.

They should probably check the room more carefully, or hang a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door or something, but Remus has been thrumming with desire for Sirius for too long now to delay touching him for even a single second. His hands tangle in Sirius’ hair, messing it up, as he yanks Sirius towards him, even though Sirius is already pressing in hard enough to crush the air from Remus’ chest. Remus sucks on Sirius’ tongue, luxuriates in the taste of him as they kiss with open, hungry mouths.

Remus pushes back, trying to pull Sirius’ shirt off and angle him towards the bed at the same time, but Sirius shakes his head and nods towards the bathroom. OK, fine, Remus isn’t about to argue, not when he could be getting Sirius naked, though he suspects Sirius’ unwillingness to mess up the bed has more to do with not leaving evidence behind than concerns about adding to the chambermaids’ workload.

In a bathroom the size of Remus’ living room they tug each other’s clothes off, scattering shoes, underwear, and the tattered satchel containing Sirius’ art supplies (and, it transpires, his supplies for quickies in hotel bathrooms). The vast roll-top, claw-footed bathtub looks wonderfully inviting, with ample room for two and if trespassing allowed more time to spare Remus would very much like to try it out, get Sirius all nice and soaped up. Still, slow and indulgent isn’t really them; over the sink seems more fitting.

‘I’ve been thinking about doing this all day,’ says Sirius as he bends Remus over. ‘How good you’re gonna look when I fuck you.’

Remus holds tight to the edge of the sink, porcelain cool against his palms as Sirius moves behind him. Sirius has one hand on Remus’ hip, gently holding him in place as the fingers of his other hand tease Remus open. Sirius’ lips are on Remus’ shoulder, scattering a thousand tiny kisses as he twists his fingers with exquisite precision. He seems to have found some hitherto unsuspected supply of patience, taking his time, too much time, so that when he finally presses his cock into the slick and wanting passage of Remus’ hole Remus all but sobs with relief, a shudder travelling down his spine to the tips of his toes.

‘Look,’ says Sirius, encouraging Remus to lift his head and look into the mirror. It’s grand, oversized, with a frame so ornate it would do credit to an Old Master. Remus sees himself, already coated in a fine sheen of perspiration, so that he seems to glow in the reflection, his lips darkly kiss swollen and eyes half-closed in desire. Behind him, Sirius is magnificent; the dark satin swoop of hair falling across his face, his every feature a picture of concentration as he thrusts in and out of Remus in a smooth adagio. As he lifts his eyes to meet Remus’, their reflections meeting in the mirror, he finally deigns to pick up the pace, easing, then shoving, and finally pounding into Remus, just how Remus needs him to.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ Remus gasps out, unable to take his eyes off the reflected vision of Sirius fucking him deep and hard.

‘We are,’ says Sirius, and grunts as he slams into Remus so hard it’s difficult to keep upright on his already shaking legs. Sirius’ gaze flits upwards, travelling across the frame. ‘Look at us: a work of art.’

Remus stifles a cry as he comes, spilling heavy and hard across the hand cut marble floor tiles.

#

‘Leave your coat on,’ says Moody by way of greeting as Remus walks into work. ‘We’re going out.’

‘Good morning to you too, Guv,’ says Remus.

Moody snorts. ‘You watch your lip, Lupin, and be grateful I’m bringing you along on this one. That scrote Mun Fletcher reckons he’s got new info about the Potter murders, wants to cut a deal. You can come and take notes.’

That makes Remus sit up and pay attention, and all of a sudden he’s more than eager to trek out to Wandsworth, even though any information Fletcher comes up with this late in the day is unlikely to be all that important, at least as far as the actual murder goes. Still, Fletcher, the Potters, Sirius, Riddle’s gang – they’re all connected, and even a nugget of information might prove vital.

‘Right, then, Fletcher. DS Lupin and I have come a long way to talk to you today,’ says Moody as they sit opposite Mun Fletcher and his Legal Aid brief in the prison interrogation room. ‘I hope you’re not wasting our time.’

‘Me? Oh, certainly not, sir,’ says Fletcher in an irritatingly obsequious manner. ‘I just like to do my bit. Terrible business it was, what happened to Lily and James.’

‘We’re so glad to hear it,’ says Remus. ‘Do you know who killed them?’

‘Can’t rightly say I do, no,’ admits Fletcher, shrinking back at the disgusted snort from Moody.

‘Thought you said you weren’t wasting our time?’ says Moody.

‘I can’t tell you who did it, I’m sorry to say, no,’ says Fletcher. ‘But I can tell you why it was.’

Moody taps the table impatiently. ‘Well then, out with it.’

‘A deal gone wrong,’ says Fletcher. ‘James Potter always did like to push his luck. Sold a hooky Pissarro to one of Riddle’s lot. ‘Course the price it went for there was no way it was on the level, had to be either hot or fake. Potter swore up hill and down dale that it was stolen.’

‘You think it was a fake?’ says Moody.

‘I know it was,’ says Fletcher. ‘I helped Lily source some of the pigments myself – not that I knew at the time what she wanted them for, of course. She was a clever one, that Lily, proper scientist. Anyway, James palmed off the fake as a genuine Pissarro, and Riddle wasn’t best pleased when he worked out he’d been had.’

‘And I suppose he couldn’t complain to Trading Standards, since he’d bought it on the basis it was stolen?’ suggests Remus.

Fletcher grins and points his finger at him. ‘Smart lad, bang on the money,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t the first time the Potters had crossed Riddle, but ’e decided it was gonna be the last. Sent a message, like, that he wasn’t to be messed with.’

‘I see,’ says Moody, looking customarily unimpressed. As expected, Fletcher’s information isn’t exactly a revelation, certainly not enough to re-open the murder investigation, and unless he coughs up something much more substantial soon it’s precious little help to Operation Phoenix either. ‘Well, if you don’t know the name of the killer, do you at least know who else was involved? Who was responsible for the fake Pissarro?’

Fletcher at least has the grace to look a little guilty as he says, ‘Sirius Black.’

Remus slinks down in his chair, groaning inwardly. He’d suspected as much.

#

Back in his office, Remus goes through Sirius’ file for the umpteenth time, shuffling pages over and over before he accepts that he’s not even reading the text, just staring at photos of Sirius. They’d squeezed a few names out of Fletcher, nothing new, but Moody’s handing out assignments to look into some of them anyway. The conversation has given even more reason for Sirius to be out for revenge on Riddle, although it hasn’t shed any light on what he has planned. Remus sighs and slams the file shut. Alice is running checks on McKinnon, who is definitely connected to Sirius somehow. Perhaps she’ll turn something up.

‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ says Alice as they’re heading home that evening. ‘You can tell me to keep my nose out if you like.’

‘Well, you can ask,’ says Remus. ‘But I’ll reserve the right to tell you to jog on if it’s too personal.’

‘Fair play,’ agrees Alice. ‘Are you having an affair with Sirius Black? Cause, uh, I won’t tell anyone if you are.’

Remus has to concentrate very hard to carry on walking. His face feels hot. ‘Am I having an affair with Black?’ he says, carefully balancing the words so they fall lightly from his mouth. ‘You make me sound like a character in a soap opera. Oh, and as your superior officer I feel duty bound to point out that if I _was_ , you should definitely tell someone.’

‘Yeah, sorry Sarge,’ says Alice, flushing. ‘I ran into him again this morning, he was asking after you. He fancies you.’

‘I can hardly been held accountable for the irresistible sexual lure I hold for the criminal classes,’ says Remus loftily.

Alice laughs, and jokingly suggests he take a leaf out of DS Snape’s book, making himself as physically and personally unappealing as possible. Soon they’re both laughing over the daft idea that Snape’s entire look and personality have been carefully cultivated to throw off hordes of zealous police groupies. By the time they say goodbye at the tube station Remus is fairly confident he’s convinced Alice, and only passingly guilty about it.

He’s fine, he’s in the clear. He’s not _having an affair_ with Sirius.

Even so, he finds himself heading to the Eastbound platform rather than West, and by the time he knocks on Sirius’ front door he’s almost out of denials.

Sirius’ face lights up with a smile as he opens the door. ‘Hey there, treacle,’ he says, pulling Remus inside for a kiss.

OK, fine, so. Maybe he is having an affair with a suspect.

#

Knowing what he’s doing doesn’t prove any barrier to carrying on doing it. Remus keeps on seeing Sirius, making the effort to only have sex with him when he’s off-duty, like that makes any sort of a difference. Sirius doesn’t talk openly about much except art, but Remus is happy enough to listen to him about that. He’s clever and funny, and has almost given up making off-colour remarks about bent coppers and the like when Remus turns up on his doorstep with a take-away curry and a bottle of red, the barbs only coming back out again when Remus beats a hasty retreat to make it home before the Northern Line stops running.

Remus can’t enter into evidence anything he finds while making, uh, social calls to Sirius, but that doesn’t stop him snooping. If Sirius _is_ planning to fake the Van Gogh he’s either finished the painting or is working on it somewhere else – or perhaps he’s just better at keeping things hidden than Remus gives him credit for. He’s increasingly certain that Sirius could do it though, and doesn’t miss the look of amused recognition on Sirius’ face when he casually drops the name of the lost work into conversation.

Even when he’s not with Sirius he’s always thinking about him, checking up on what he’s doing. It’s muddying the water, he knows, and sometimes Remus doesn’t much like what he finds. He’s known all along that Sirius uses sex as a weapon, or as currency, in his dodgy dealings but Remus’ discovery of Sirius’ collection of sex tapes is still an unpleasant surprise. Remus doesn’t like to look at them, doesn’t know how relieved he ought to be not to find any record of himself with Sirius, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about why seeing Sirius with other men is so irritating.

It doesn’t matter, Remus tells himself. He needs to focus on Sirius’ criminal activity, especially his efforts to produce a fake Van Gogh.

What he still can’t figure out is why Sirius would be doing it. The best Remus can come up with is that he’s planning to sell the fake to Riddle – presumably using some sort of intermediary – but conning a large pile of money out of him doesn’t seem like that great a revenge, certainly not enough to satisfy Sirius. There has to be more to it, and Remus isn’t going to give up until he finds out what.

#

‘So, like we expected, Marlene McKinnon knows everyone and everything,’ says Alice, presenting what she’s got so far to Remus. ‘It’s not that there’s nothing to go on with her, more so many potential leads it’s hard knowing where to start. But then I remembered what we talked about, how a lot of this gang stuff is personal, so I decided to start with that.’

Remus nods. ‘Good thinking. So who was your first victim?’

‘Dorcas Meadowes,’ says Alice, turning over a picture. ‘McKinnon’s girlfriend.’

The name is familiar, causing Remus to wrinkle his brow in concentration until he remembers. ‘Ah, the smuggler.’

Meadowes had been a key player in a game bringing stolen goods into the UK from Argentina a couple of years previously, and they’d suspected it wasn’t a one-off. The investigation had been dropped because the goods in question had been stolen from fugitive war criminals and purchased by Nazi memorabilia fans back in Europe. The case had been deemed a poor use of public money, not least because the public would most likely think both sides had it coming - they’d passed some information on to the Germans, but the smuggling investigation had been dropped.

‘The very one,’ says Alice. ‘Looks like she’s up to her old tricks. Kingsley and I followed her for three days before we found her meeting with one of Riddle’s men.’

She shows Remus another photograph, a long-lens shot of Meadowes in a coffee shop, talking to Peter Pettigrew. Remus recalls Fletcher mentioning Pettigrew when he and Moody visited him in prison, said Pettigrew was one of Riddle’s buyers.

‘Nice work,’ he tells Alice. ‘You and Kingsley keep watching Meadowes. I’ll see what we’ve got on Pettigrew.’

It takes two days of reading through old case files and listening to interview transcripts until Remus cracks it. He has to go right back to Pettigrew’s juvenile records, where he finds that Pettigrew’s first arrest was in the company of James Potter and Sirius Black. He went to the same primary school as James, and had been questioned alongside Lily too. Before he’d joined with Riddle, he’d been part of the Potters’ gang.

That had to be it. It isn’t Riddle Sirius is trying to get back at. It’s Pettigrew.

#

‘Don’t do it.’

‘Do what, treacle?’

Remus takes a deep breath, and pulls the folder he’s been carrying around for days out of his bag. It’s taken a while to put the final pieces of the jigsaw together, longer still for him to gather the nerve to confront Sirius about it. He’s spent the afternoon with Sirius, and now they’re lounging on the sagging sofa in the corner of his studio, with Sirius flicking through take-away menus. Remus can still taste the salt burn of Sirius’ come at the back of his throat.

‘I know what it is you’ve been planning,’ he says. ‘The art forgery, the Van Gogh that you’ve been working on. And what you’re going to do with it. Because of your friends, the Potters.’

Sirius blinks, but he keeps his features carefully arranged into an expression of amused interest. 

‘What about them?’ he says cautiously.

‘You want revenge,’ says Remus.

Sirius looks at him directly. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘Let’s get back to that,’ says Remus, unwilling to be drawn into a mess of ethics and emotions any sooner than absolutely necessary. ‘Right now I’m more interested in the job you’re planning.’

‘Well then, Detective Sergeant, do tell.’ Sirius pronounces Remus’ title with an air of mockery, and the sneer that underlaid their earlier conversations is coming to the surface again. He tosses the kebab house flyers onto the coffee table and sits back, arms folded across his chest. 

‘It took me a while to work it all out,’ says Remus. He speaks softly, carefully, using his own calm to influence Sirius the same way he would a volatile suspect – which, in the proper course of things, Sirius is. He shows Sirius a document from his folder, a print out of an article about the lost Van Gogh.

‘ _The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV_ ,’ says Remus. ‘Missing since 1937, when it was confiscated by the Nazis as supposedly degenerate art. Some of the works looted by the Nazis have been recovered, others were destroyed. And some – like this one – are still missing.’

‘I see that Art History degree hasn’t gone to waste,’ says Sirius. ‘Is there a point to all this?’

‘You painted it,’ says Remus. ‘A copy of it, anyway. You didn’t even try to hide it; I saw the preparatory canvases lying about your studio the day the shop was searched.’

Sirius shrugs, and leans back a little further. ‘There’s nothing illegal about making a reproduction.’

‘I got to wondering why,’ Remus continues, almost as if Sirius hadn’t spoken. ‘The fake would be very valuable, if you could pull it off, but money never seemed all that important to you.’

‘Maybe I just like a challenge.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ agrees Remus. ‘But the thing you care about most isn’t pulling a con or proving yourself, is it? It’s vengeance.’

Sirius eyes him warily, but doesn’t argue.

‘But how would you get back at Riddle by selling him a fake? You’d make money out of it, but not enough to ruin him. And then Mun Fletcher mentioned to me that Riddle’s chief buyer these days is your former friend Peter Pettigrew.’

The mention of Pettigrew’s name provokes a shift in Sirius’ demeanour. The pretence at indifference fades as he sits up straight, alert, like a terrier ready to attack.

It’s time to deescalate a bit, change tack before bringing up Pettigrew’s betrayal. Remus pulls a photograph from the file and shows it to Sirius.

‘Argo Pyrites, art expert, very well thought of,’ says Remus. ‘He’s the one that any number of people call to check an artwork’s provenance. Auction houses, private collectors, insurers… and Pettigrew. But of course, you don’t need me to tell you who he is, do you?’

Before Sirius can answer Remus pulls out another photograph of Pyrites, this time with Sirius, a still taken from a video of them having sex. The image quality isn’t the best, but it’s easy to see Pyrites running his fingers through Sirius’ hair as Sirius sucks him off. Remus might feel worse about the invasion of privacy if it hadn’t been so easy to hack into Sirius’ cloud and download it.

‘I assume this is the leverage you used to have Pyrites agree to authenticate your fake for you?’ asks Remus.

‘Are you accusing me of blackmail?’ says Sirius. ‘Actually, it was more like bribery. Well, I paid for his services in kind. I always like to keep a receipt, though.’

‘Charming,’ says Remus through clenched teeth.

‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ says Sirius, leaning towards Remus. ‘I thought the number of men who’ve had their dicks in me was a turn-on for you.’

Remus hasn’t liked to name the sick, broiling anger he feels looking at the picture of Sirius with Pyrites as jealousy. He knows he doesn’t have any right to be jealous. Sirius can fuck who he likes, Remus doesn’t dispute that.

All the same he can’t quite look Sirius in the eye as he continues. This time he pulls out a picture of Meadowes meeting Pettigrew which he’s photocopied from the evidence folder Alice and Kingsley were working on.

‘Meadowes has never worked with you or the Potters, but she does have history bringing back items stolen from Nazi war criminals hiding out in South America. So it wouldn’t be implausible if she claimed to have put her hands on a painting which had been looted by the Nazis, especially if there’s a respected art expert on hand to verify it.’

‘You make me sound so devious,’ says Sirius.

‘But it still leaves the question of why you’d do it,’ says Remus. ‘Like we said, you’re not after money or glory, are you? You want revenge.’

Sirius’ expression darkens. Remus feels his throat tighten, but carries on. ‘I thought it was Riddle you wanted to get back on for the longest time, but then I found this.’

He places a final photograph on the coffee table, the one that took him longest to find. It’s a family photo with all the Potters – Monty and Mia, as well as Lily and James, with a young and carefree Sirius sitting between them. In the corner of the picture there’s the much younger, but still unmistakeable face of Peter Pettigrew.

‘Pettigrew was one of yours, wasn’t he?’ asks Remus, his voice low. ‘He betrayed you. Riddle didn’t find out by accident that Lily and James had conned him – Pettigrew sold them out.’

Still Sirius doesn’t speak, although his expression is thunderous, his fingers twitching as his hands grip his knees.

‘I only realised after Fletcher told me Riddle ordered the hit on the Potters when he realised they’d sold him a fake,’ says Remus, omitting that he knows it was one of Sirius’ fakes. ‘You never meant for your copy of the Van Gogh to be accepted, did you? Just long enough to fool Pettigrew. Eventually – and perhaps you even had something lined up to expose the fake yourself – Riddle would find out that Pettigrew had sold him a ringer. And the penalty for selling Riddle a fake is death.’

Sirius stands without speaking, and walks away from Remus. His hands rake through his hair, then fall to fists by his side. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’ he asks at last.

‘No,’ says Remus. He speaks softly, moving to stand closer to Sirius, hopefully not close enough to spook him. He wants Sirius to stay calm enough to listen. ‘Apart from anything else, I don’t have any real evidence.’

‘Right,’ says Sirius tightly, as he turns back to face Remus again. ‘So you wanna tell me exactly what is the point of all this?’

‘I told you, I don’t want you to do it,’ says Remus. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ Sirius spits the word out contemptuously.

‘You could get caught,’ says Remus. ‘I worked it out, someone else might as well. You could go to prison. Or Riddle’s lot might decide to kill you.’

‘I don’t care,’ says Sirius.

Despite his best efforts to remain calm, Remus snaps. ‘How can you not care if you live or die?’

‘Because I don’t!’ Sirius insists hotly. ‘Peter took everything away from me, everything. Lily and James were my family and he betrayed them. He’s the reason they’re dead.’

‘Sirius, I know, I know you’re angry, you’ve got every right to be,’ says Remus imploringly. ‘But doing this – risking prison, your own life, even if it did work out – it isn’t going to bring them back.’

‘I know that!’ shouted Sirius. ‘I’m not a fucking idiot. For 12 years I’ve been on my own and the only thing, the only thing that’s kept me going is knowing that one day I’d get even with Peter. I can’t bring Lily and James back but I can settle the score for them.’

‘It’s not settling anything if Riddle kills you as well.’

‘Well, I have to do something!’ Sirius’ voice grows louder. 

‘But not this,’ says Remus. ‘Please, it’s too dangerous.’

‘I don’t care,’ says Sirius again. ‘I don’t. Because all I have is this. I’ve waited so long. My friends are dead, I’m not part of anything anymore. If I give up my chance to get even with Peter now, what do I have left?’

Sirius is breathing heavily, on the brink of exploding, but Remus knows that now is the time to be brave. He takes a step forwards, and takes Sirius’ hands in his own.

‘Me,’ says Remus softly. ‘You can have me.’

It’s as close as he’s ever got to a declaration of, well, anything, and saying the words makes Remus feels vulnerable, like he’s naked, standing in front of Sirius with a fresh layer of skin exposed.

A flicker of disbelief travels over Sirius’ face before he pulls his hands away.

‘I am not,’ he says, his voice practically a snarl, ‘giving up everything I’ve worked towards for a fuck.’

He turns to walk away, but Remus is right behind him. ‘We are more than that and you know it.’

‘Are we?’ Sirius spins around, arms open. ‘We fuck, and sometimes when you’re feeling lonely you turn up on my doorstep with some cheap plonk and a ruby, and that makes us what now? Gonna introduce me to your fellow officers as your boyfriend, start holding my hand in public?’

‘We could work something out,’ mutters Remus.

‘The only thing you need to work out is your issues,’ says Sirius. ‘Go and deal with your guilt about fucking a con artist some other way. I’ll suck your cock but I won’t salve your conscience.’

‘That’s not… that’s not what this is about,’ says Remus hotly, acutely aware that he doesn’t feel anything like as guilty as he should about his relationship with Sirius. ‘I care about you.’

Sirius glares back, unmoved. ‘That’s pretty stupid of you.’

‘I’m not the one being stupid right now,’ says Remus. ‘Can’t you just stop and fucking _think_ about this?’

‘I’d like you to go now,’ says Sirius, voice cool and hands folded across his chest. 

Remus slams the door on his way out, but it doesn’t give him any satisfaction.


	3. Chapter 3

The days following Remus’ argument with Sirius feel empty and bleak, like the aftermath of a hangover or a particularly violent stomach upset. It’s a curious, gnawing sense of displacement, and Remus can’t quite put a name to it or decide what to do with himself.

He really ought to share the information he’s gathered with Moody. Remus steels himself for the conversation then changes his mind a dozen times a day, before realising he’s kidding himself; it’s not in Remus’ nature to expose himself like that. He should concentrate on work, devote his energies to making sure the Art and Antiques Unit holds its own within Operation Phoenix, and do everything he can to ensure he makes DI before Snape does.

If he brings Marlene McKinnon in for questioning a little too often, and grills her a little more intensely than strictly necessary, so what? Half the Met knows that McKinnon is trouble. Remus is just doing his job.

‘DS Lupin, these meetings are becoming a regular event,’ says McGonagall as they enter the lift together. She’s a fearsome solicitor, and the reason they’d barely got a word out of McKinnon in that morning’s interview.

‘Oh, so you are capable of saying something more than “you don’t have to answer that” after all,’ says Remus tersely. 

‘Come now, detective, you must have some sympathy for Miss McKinnon,’ says McGonagall. ‘No young lady likes to be invited for a conversation only to be grilled about her gentleman caller.’

Remus snorts at the description of Sirius as a “gentleman caller” – he’s no gentleman and, whatever nefarious deeds he and McKinnon have been up to, he certainly hasn’t been calling on her for that.

It is, however, true that Remus did ask her about him a lot.

‘Speaking of Black, didn’t Mia Potter practically adopt him?’ Remus now says to McGonagall. ‘Mia Potter as in your girlhood friend.’

McGonagall fixes him with a beady stare. ‘I don’t care for your tone, Detective Sergeant.’

‘I wonder how she’d feel if she could see her boy Sirius now,’ Remus continues. ‘All alone, running two bit scams. From what I hear the Potters were big on loyalty, you’d think she’d have expected her best friend to look out for the lad.’

The lift opens into the lobby, and McGonagall marches out, heading for a quiet spot behind the doors. Remus half expects her to drag him along by the ear lobe. It’s possible he’s being unreasonable, but Remus can’t bring himself to feel sorry - _someone_ has to answer for the state Sirius has been allowed to get himself into.

‘I suggest you confine your opinions to subjects you know something about,’ hisses McGonagall in a rare display of emotion. ‘You don’t know Sirius Black like I knew him.’

‘Knew, as in past tense?’ says Remus.

‘Knew,’ McGonagall confirms with a tight nod of her head. ‘I knew a boy named Sirius Black, and he was brilliant and impossible and he died the night they killed Lily and James. The man you’ve met is a shadow of that boy. Sirius Black today might as well be a corpse.’

‘You’re wrong,’ says Remus. She has to be.

‘I keep him out of prison,’ says McGonagall. She might mean “for Mia” but she doesn’t say it. ‘And he’s alive, technically. Under the circumstances, that’s quite an achievement.’

‘Under what circumstances?’ asks Remus, not really expecting new information but willing to chance it.

‘Apparently it’s beyond the wit of the Metropolitan Police to find and prosecute the Potters’ murderers,’ says McGonagall. ‘Possibly they’re all too busy haranguing unsuspecting defence solicitors.’

Haranguing, right. Remus huffs and takes a step back. ‘I suppose you’re going to file a complaint about police harassment, now?’

McGonagall fixes him with another of her fearsome stares. ‘No, merely suggest that you concentrate on doing your own job before lecturing me on my personal responsibilities. Furthermore, unless you _are_ planning to re-open the murder investigation, I’d think very carefully before mentioning the names of any of the Potter family to me again. Good day, DS Lupin.’

#

It’s late, and yet, even chamomile tea, a generous shot of rum, the Alexander technique, and that absurd lavender pillow spray someone thought would make a good Secret Santa gift aren’t helping Remus to sleep. He’s blinking up at the ceiling, idly wondering if the landlord is ever going to do something about that damp spot in the corner, when the dull roar of traffic and a distant drunk choir is interrupted by footsteps on the fire escape and the creak of his living room window opening. There’s only one person ever lets themself in like that.

‘Sirius?’ he calls out, trying not to sound too hopeful. He should probably be angry or concerned, but he’s glad of the distraction.

‘The very same.’ Sirius appears in the doorway, illuminated by the faint glow of streetlights flooding in through the window behind him. He’s wearing torn jeans and a thin t-shirt, and stands shivering on the spot. ‘Mind if I get in? It’s brass monkeys out there.’

‘Sure,’ says Remus, forgoing the pleasure of pointing out that Sirius didn’t wait to be asked into his flat to get Sirius into his bed as quickly as possible. Sirius undresses in a moment, sadly not letting Remus get a good look at him, before diving under the duvet and wrapping himself around Remus like a koala hanging off a tree.

‘Oh, your feet are like lumps of lead,’ objects Remus, without making any effort to move away.

Rather than do the decent thing and apologise, or keep his frozen extremities to himself, Sirius just rubs his feet against Remus’ shin. ‘That’s why I need someone hot to warm me up,’ he says, laughing off Remus’ groan. ‘Don’t be like that, aren’t you pleased to see me?’

Since Remus is, in fact, far more pleased to see Sirius than he’s willing to admit, he neglects to answer the question in favour of kissing him. Sirius’ mouth is warm at least, soft and pliable, and he returns Remus’ kisses keenly. It’s nice, sweet, and Remus feels more relaxed when he pulls back to look at Sirius properly.

‘So,’ asks Remus tentatively. ‘Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?’

‘Not exactly,’ says Sirius. He flashes Remus a cheeky grin. ‘You didn’t really want to put me on the straight and narrow.’

Remus rolls his eyes. ‘Cheeky fucker. I could still kick you out of bed, you know.’

‘You could, but I haven’t made you come yet, so I reckon I’m safe for a bit.’

‘I mean it,’ says Remus, lying so that he’s facing Sirius directly, stroking the hair back from Sirius’ face. ‘There are other ways, I could help you. We could build a case against Pettigrew, maybe not for what he did to your friends but enough to put him away for a very long time. Without putting you in harm’s way.’

Sirius looks back at him, his expression unreadable. ‘Well, that’s just the thing,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t exactly planning on hanging around like a sitting duck waiting for Riddle and his pals to take me out. I have an exit strategy.’

‘You’re going away?’ says Remus, wondering why he didn’t see it sooner. ‘Leaving the country?’

Sirius nods. ‘Thailand. The Potters… there’s somewhere safe there I can stay.’

Remus takes a deep breath, trying to hide his disappointment with a sigh of resignation. ‘So you came to say goodbye.’

‘Don’t be daft, treacle,’ says Sirius. ‘I came to ask you to come with me.’

It’s so absurd that Remus actually laughs out loud. ‘You want me to go on the run with you?’

‘Yeah.’ Sirius grins. ‘It’ll be much more fun with you.’

‘Sirius, I may not have acted much like one recently, but I am a police officer,’ says Remus. ‘I have a job, a career, responsibilities. I’m on track to make DI soon, do you know how few mixed-race Inspectors there are in the Met, especially my age?’

‘Boring,’ pronounces Sirius. ‘You’ll be bored, you know you will. Getting promoted just means more paperwork. Come with me and we can spend our days lying by the pool, nights partying on the beach. The safe house I told you about has 15 different rooms, and we can fuck in every one.’

For a brief moment Remus allows himself to picture it, and it does sound lovely. It’s very hot in Thailand, Sirius wouldn’t need much in the way of clothes. But then the reality kicks in.

‘And then, what, when you get bored I can watch you fuck the pool boy, a few rich tourists, and whichever corrupt official you have to suck off to stop yourself getting extradited?’ Remus shoots out with more venom than he’d intended. He hadn’t meant to give so much away.

Far from taking offence, Sirius just smiles at him, and presses a kiss to Remus’ cheek. ‘You want to keep me to yourself?’ he asks. ‘I can handle that. You’re my favourite anyway.’

He rolls on top of Remus and keeps on kissing him, gentle butterfly kisses across Remus’ face, his hairline, the curve of his neck.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ says Remus, though he can’t quite bring himself to push Sirius away. ‘We can’t just… go on the run. With crime gangs and Interpol chasing after us.’

‘Mm, exciting, isn’t it?’ says Sirius, moving down to press kisses over Remus’ shoulder and across his chest.

‘I won’t exactly be able to get another job,’ says Remus. ‘What are we supposed to do for money?’

Sirius nips at Remus’ stomach between kisses. ‘I’m really rich.’

‘Of course, I’ll just go on the lam and spend the rest of my days as a kept man living off the proceeds of crime,’ says Remus, alarmed to note that his voice is becoming rather shrill.

‘Nah, Monty and Mia took care of me, so did my uncle. It’s legit.’ Sirius grins up at Remus. ‘Mostly legit.’

‘That’s not inspiring much confidence,’ says Remus.

‘Maybe I’ll become a proper artist,’ says Sirius. ‘You can be my muse. And my canvas.’

Before Remus can respond, Sirius’ lips surround his cock, sucking him in slow and sensual. Any argument Remus might have been able to muster fades into a sigh as Sirius swallows his dick. Remus is more experienced than he was the first time Sirius sucked him off in a half-lit gallery corridor all those years ago, but he still reckons Sirius is a cut above the rest when it comes to giving head.

Remus runs his fingers through Sirius’ hair, gentle for now, as Sirius fondles his balls in the palm of his hand, and uses his tongue to stroke the underside of Remus’ cock. When Sirius hums around him the vibrations seem to dance through every cell in Remus’ body, making him cry out and buck his hips. Sirius doesn’t miss a beat, and his head keeps bobbing up and down under Remus’ hands, sucking him in deep over and over again. Eventually Remus comes, straight-backed and gasping, gripping Sirius’ hair and holding him tight as he floods Sirius’ mouth.

He looks up blearily to see Sirius looming over him, cock in hand, and blinks to get a better view. Sirius kneels between Remus’ splayed legs, staring down at Remus as he wanks himself off. Remus licks his lips; his poor, privileged eyes don’t know which part of Sirius to focus on. His cock, thick and heavy, disappearing and reappearing in his fist as Sirius strokes himself or his face; dark, lidded eyes gazing at Remus, high spots of colour on his cheeks, lips rich and full, curved into a small frown of concentration.

‘You want it?’ says Sirius, reminding Remus of his earlier promise to make Remus his canvas.

‘Yeah.’ Remus licks his lips as he watches Sirius, fist pumping over cock. Sirius tosses back his head and lets out a strangled grunt as he comes, shooting a fountain of spunk over Remus’ stomach and chest, even his jawbone.

‘The thing about art,’ says Sirius, his voice gruff. ‘It’s not always meant to be permanent.’

With that he leans over and starts licking Remus clean. His tongue feels rough and wet as it laps up puddles of come from Remus’ body, travelling in broad sweeps across his abdomen, then whirling around his nipples. Sirius sucks the last drop off Remus’ jaw, before finally pressing his lips to Remus’. Sirius’ mouth is full of come, his own and traces of Remus’, and he feeds it to Remus as they kiss. It’s a messy, sloppy thing, both sucking and slurping as they transfer salty syrup from mouth to mouth. Remus gulps down all he can, then licks into Sirius’ mouth for more. Eventually Sirius falls away, humming with quiet satisfaction.

‘You know, I’m not sure blow jobs are the best basis for making important life choices,’ says Remus, still a little breathless as he pulls Sirius into his arms. ‘But you do make a very persuasive argument.’

‘I can think of worse reasons,’ says Sirius as he settles himself on Remus’ shoulder, his arm slung across Remus’ chest, one leg draped across Remus’ thighs. He’s practically anchoring Remus to the bed; it’s not so bad. ‘C’mon, Remus, run away with me.’

Remus just laughs softly, and kisses the top of Sirius’ head. ‘Goodnight, Sirius.’

Hours later he wakes in the dirty-yellow dawn, with a crick in his neck, a burn in his throat, and a dead arm from Sirius sleeping on it. Sirius has rolled onto his back during the night, and every so often he makes soft, whuffling snores and kicks his leg, like a dog dreaming of chasing a rabbit.

The sight of him, up close, so peaceful and calm, makes Remus’ chest tighten. He feels a little sick, more frightened than he’s ever been in his life. Leaning across the bed, he lands a single kiss on Sirius’ forehead.

‘You fucking bastard,’ Remus says softly. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

#

Remus makes yet another trip around the Koh Samui Airport’s shopping arcade, reminding himself once again that Sirius isn’t late, it’s just that Remus’s flight from Singapore landed earlier than expected. He hasn’t actually done anything illegal. His tickets – for a circuitous route taking in places as far afield as Latvia and Japan – have all been legally purchased, and he’s been granted leave from work. He’s tired and achy, nerves frazzled from barely sleeping in three days, and his skin prickles with heat. His shirt is plastered to his back, and his hair has poofed out to at least three times its normal size. Samui Airport calls itself the most beautiful and best designed in the world but, while it’s certainly prettier than Gatwick, it’s not the most relaxing place Remus has ever been.

_It’s not too late to turn back_ , Remus reminds himself for the hundredth time. _If he doesn’t turn up, I can just catch another flight home._ He’ll be out of pocket and it’ll be a while before he can get more time off work, but at least no-one knows where he’s gone so he won’t lose face. It’s all still salvageable.

Ten minutes before his flight was due to land, Remus makes his way back to the arrivals gate. His heart is in his mouth, and he’s already making up a list of reasons why Sirius might be delayed and how there’s no need to panic. When he spots Sirius in the distance, casually leaning against a pillar, Remus is so relieved he has to fight the urge to call out and run to him.

‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he manages instead as he approaches Sirius.

Sirius’ face lights up, like he’s genuinely thrilled to see Remus, and he steps forward to envelop him in a hug. Apparently untouched by mundane concerns of heat and the crush of tourists, Sirius remains coolly immaculate; even his linen shirt appears magically uncreased, and he smells amazing.

‘C’mon,’ says Sirius, taking Remus by the hand and leading him outside. ‘Not far to go now.’

“Not far” involves a brief and boiling taxi ride, followed by a choppy journey across the sea by catamaran. Remus is dimly aware that the scenery en-route to Koh Pahngan is heart-stoppingly beautiful, and he only wishes he weren’t too busy trying not to be forcibly reacquainted to with his terrible airplane lunch to appreciate it properly.

Sirius provides a bottle of lukewarm water and insists on carrying Remus’ rucksack as they disembark.

‘Cheer up, treacle,’ he says, giving Remus a sympathetic smile. ‘No more public transport.’

After a moment of being briefly afraid that Sirius is going to make him walk to… wherever it is they’re going, Remus is ready to cry with relief when he sees they’re heading to the car park. It makes far more sense that Sirius would have a car ready – probably a really expensive one, with comfortable seats, excellent suspension, and properly functioning air-conditioning. Remus can hardly wait to sit down in comfort.

Of course Sirius wouldn’t do anything so sensible.

‘A motorbike. Really, Sirius?’ says Remus, as Sirius unpacks his rucksack into the bike panniers. ‘Aren’t you a bit young for a mid-life crisis?’

‘Cobblers, it makes me look cool and you know it,’ says Sirius with all the cheerful confidence of a man who has never once in his life worried about being uncool. ‘And before you start on jokes about organ donors, I even brought you a helmet. C'mon, it'll make you look cool.'

In another example of the fundamental unfairness of the universe, Sirius himself still doesn’t have the decency to look like the radish-faced, sweaty mess of a typical white Brit abroad. He’s barely perspiring, and his hair is shiny and perfect. In contrast Remus feels like a sticky, bedraggled mess, irritated by Sirius’ ostentatious perfection.

‘Shut your face,’ he says, snatching the helmet out of Sirius’ hand. ‘And you’d best know how to drive this thing. I didn’t fly halfway around the fucking planet to end up dead in a ditch.’

Sirius just grins and throws one leg over the bike. He looks exceptionally cool, and it shows off his arse magnificently.

‘Your chariot awaits,’ he says, as Remus climbs on behind him, with rather less aplomb. ‘Hold on tight.’

Remus does as he’s told, and soon decides that racing around the island clinging to Sirius is the best way he’s travelled in his life. They travel along a picture-postcard shoreline, with white sandy beaches kissed by sparkling azure waves. The town is frenetic and colourful, with a thousand and one things Remus longs to stop and take a closer look at. Finally, they reach the long road through the jungle, so lush and green Remus can scarcely believe it’s real. They whizz past everything too quickly to get a proper look, but the flashes of the island Remus sees as they race along are beautiful, and he’s starting to get excited about exploring properly. The speed of travel creates a pleasant breeze, and the bumps in the road are a good excuse to feel Sirius up as they go.

After a nerve-wracking climb up the mountain, Sirius pulls up in front of a building so large that Remus at first assumes it must be a hotel and not, as Sirius assures him on entry, their new home. It’s hard not to gawp openly at the size and luxury of the house, which must be worth a vast sum of money. The large, whitewashed villa looks more European in design than traditional Thai, although inside the décor is more a mix of styles, with neat bamboo mats on the floor and an eclectic mix of artworks on the walls. It’s tasteful, but not stuffily so. Wide windows across the back of the house reveal breathtaking sea views although not, Sirius explains as he gives a brief tour, the villa’s private beach.

‘Is that..?’ Remus points, still reeling from the fact that a place like this exists, never mind that he’s going to live in it. ‘Is that a swimming pool in the middle of the living room?’

‘It goes outside as well,’ says Sirius, leading Remus around to get a better look. Sure enough, the pool runs out onto the patio, seeming to stretch out to the ocean beyond. ‘Fancy a dip?’

Before Remus can answer, Sirius is stripping off, and seconds later launches himself naked into the pool, with a splash that gets Remus’ toes wet. Feeling like he’s about to jump into a Hockney print, Remus tugs off his own clothes and dives in after him. The cool of the pool revives him, and by the time he’s swum outside to join Sirius, Remus feels like a new person.

Hanging off the edge of the pool, Sirius looks at him, his eyes uncharacteristically solemn, but his smile fond. There’s water dripping down his face.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he tells Remus.

Looking at Sirius, in all his wonderfully athletic naked beauty, in a place which might very well qualify as paradise, Remus thinks he’s more than lucky. He bobs closer to Sirius and kisses him, slow at first, then with increasing heat. He’s eager to reacquaint himself with Sirius’ mouth, with the taste of him, every part of Sirius’ body. The few days ago they said goodbye in London seem a lifetime away now.

‘We should probably get out of the pool if you want any of that,’ says Sirius, as Remus’ hands make their way down his back to cup Sirius’ arse.

‘You get out,’ says Remus, grinning as he pats the edge of the pool with his hand.

Sirius hauls himself out, giving a nice display of his upper body strength as he does so, and turns to perch on the side of the pool, his feet dipping into the water. Remus positions himself between Sirius’ knees, one hand on each of his thighs. Sirius seems to glow under the light of the evening sun, water running down his chest and abdomen in tantalizing rivlets, down the dark nest of pubic hair, where his cock juts out, flushing pink and proud.

Remus takes his time sucking the head of Sirius’ cock into his mouth, slow and unhurried, because at at last he’s got all the time in the world. He can taste the water from the pool on Sirius’ skin, clear with a tang of chlorine, and sucks it all away.

As Remus works up and down the length of his cock, Sirius’ breathing hitches, and his left leg twitches in the water. He leans back on his arms, his head tossed back in pleasure. Remus loves to see him like this, his perfect physique proudly on display, and his every twitch and gasp of pleasure coming directly from Remus’ mouth.

Gradually, Remus sucks harder, his head bobbing up and down ever faster. His hands travel up the sinewy plains of Sirius’ thighs and around his back, finally grasping the firm roundness of Sirius’ buttocks in his hands. When Sirius cries out and comes, flooding Remus’ mouth with salty liquid warmth, Remus pulls him forward, so that Sirius is plunged back into the water beside him.

Sirius clings to Remus, fingers digging into Remus’ shoulders as he comes down from the wake of his orgasm. When he gets his breath back, he looks at Remus and laughs.

‘Now I’m _really_ glad you’re here.’

#

As Remus’ initial trepidation fades, their life really does seem idyllic. Phangan is beautiful, and Remus finds himself unable to think of it in anything but clichés about living in paradise. They lounge on sun-drenched beaches and drink champagne in the hot tub at midnight; visit cafés, museums, street markets, and temples; they go hiking, snorkelling, and to all-night parties on beaches on the far side of the island. Remus hasn’t got around to counting how many rooms there are in the house or which ones they’ve had sex in, but there are a lot of rooms and they have a lot of sex.

Sirius is more relaxed and eager to please than he’d ever been back in London, taking Remus anywhere he wants – or even hints he might like – to go. When he finds Remus poring over a Thai phrasebook found lurking in one the bathrooms, he arranges lessons with a friendly old man in a nearby village, and then gives Remus a bike of his own when Remus worries about Sirius having to taxi him there and back.

Little by little, he opens up to Remus as well. Remus encourages him by sharing his own tales about his quiet and grey life of Sundays in small-town Wales, and the more ridiculous excuses he’d heard from the perps he’d collared. It does the trick, as Sirius starts to confide snippets of his own personal history, stories about the holidays he’d taken in the villa with the Potters. 

Sometimes, when Remus keeps his mind off the phone he tossed before leaving the airport, the fact that he’s had Sirius remove every television from the house, and his refusal to touch a computer for fear of giving in to curiosity and checking the news, Remus forgets Sirius is on the run. He ignores how long it’s been since his annual leave ran out, refuses to speculate on whether or not the Met are looking for him yet, and manages to enjoy himself completely. Those are the best times.

#

Some times are less good. Remus expected to feel tense and nervous, fearful of being found by Riddle’s associates or the long arm of the law, but they seem such distant things, so remote, it’s hard for the fear to linger. What he hadn’t anticipated was the listlessness, the growing sense of unease that comes from not having anything pressing to do.

‘Whatever you like,’ Sirius would say whenever Remus mentioned it, and usually went on to whisk Remus away for another adventure; a trip by private speedboat, an elephant ride, a spa day, or an athletic attempt at shagging in a hammock. It was always fun – being with Sirius was never boring – but the discontent crept back afterwards, more quickly each time.

At times Remus feels like an imposter, one who hasn’t earnt and doesn’t deserve their luxurious lifestyle. While Sirius chats amiably to the various staff who visited the villa every other day, mopping the floors and cleaning the pool, Remus becomes awkward, vaguely resentful of the intrusion into their home, and afraid of being thought rude or snobbish. 

He jumps at any chance to make himself useful, which is how he winds up making a solo journey by motorcycle to Thongsala, to collect a package Sirius ordered in from an art bookshop. It’s a tiny place, tucked into one of the quieter streets away from the port and the beach, piled high with books, paper, and a selection of art supplies. Sirius loves it, and would be more than happy to make the trip himself, but Remus insisted he wanted to do something for him.

Anyway, the shopkeeper likes Sirius a little too much, in Remus’ opinion.

Other than his job and his name – Gasparu – Remus knows next to nothing about the bloke. Only that he’s Corsican, which Remus doesn’t care about, and that he has history with Sirius, which he does.

‘Can I help you?’ asks Gasparu as Remus approaches, a far cry from the enthusiastic greeting he always offers Sirius.

‘We got a message that Sirius’ order has come in,’ says Remus. ‘I’ve come to collect it for him.’

Gasparu looks Remus up and down, assessing him. When he finally speaks, his tone makes it clear that Remus has been found wanting. ‘Sirius did not tell me he’d be sending someone else to pick it up,’ he says. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

They’ve been in together often enough for Gasparu to know fine well who Remus is.

‘I’m his boyfriend,’ says Remus, through gritted teeth. Ordinarily he’d prefer “partner” but he’s not about to allow Gasparu room to speculate on the nature of his relationship with Sirius. In a tone of fake pleasantness Remus continues, ‘Of course, if there’s a problem, Sirius and I would be happy to shop on the mainland.’

‘No problem,’ says Gasparu, pulling a package out from under the counter. Apparently his dedication to being a provocative little shit doesn’t extend to throwing away good business.

‘Much obliged.’ Remus offers an insincere smile. ‘What do I owe you?’

Gasparu shrugs. ‘Sirius and I can come to an arrangement.’

Remus swallows down the urge to punch him in the face. He can’t afford to risk getting arrested.

‘Cash is fine,’ says Remus. ‘How much?’

Tossing down a pile of 1000 baht notes and telling Gasparu to keep the change makes Remus feel a little better, but he’s still in a sour mood by the time he gets home. He finds Sirius sitting in a deckchair on one of the verandas, with an easel set up nearby like he’s waiting for whatever Remus brings back.

‘Gasparu was disappointed not to see you,’ says Remus, tossing the parcel into Sirius’ lap. ‘You gave me enough to cover the bill but I don’t think it was cash he wanted.’

‘Cheeky git.’ Sirius laughs softly as he tears open his parcel.

Remus doesn’t answer, just kicks a pebble across the veranda and folds his arms across his chest. Despite his excitement over his new delivery, Sirius notices; he gets to his feet to come and stand by Remus.

‘He’ll just have to learn to live with disappointment, won’t he?’ says Sirius, planting a quick kiss on Remus’ forehead.

Remus nods tightly. He knows he’s being unreasonable – Sirius hasn’t done anything wrong. All the same, he can’t leave it alone. ‘Have you though?’ he asks, unable to look Sirius in the eye or even spell out the question. ‘Given him… that sort of an arrangement.’

‘You mean, have I had sex with him to pay a bill? No,’ says Sirius. He doesn’t sound at all embarrassed. ‘But I did once do it to persuade him to fence some gear through his shop.’

‘Right.’ Remus looks away. His own stupid fault for asking.

‘It was a long time ago,’ says Sirius. ‘Remus, you can’t – Right from the start, getting into this, you knew what I was.’

_Was_. That’s the important part, Remus reminds himself. Sirius might be a con artist, but he’s always kept his promises to Remus. Remus’ jealous insecurity is not his fault.

‘I don’t mean to be like this,’ admits Remus by way of apology. He turns back towards Sirius, shame faced, relieved that Sirius doesn’t seem too angry.

‘You’ve got nothing to worry about,’ says Sirius.

‘I know, it was all in the past, it isn’t fair of me to – ’

‘ – No, you don’t understand,’ Sirius interrupts. ‘You really don’t need to worry about Gasparu. Geezer’s got the smallest dick I ever saw on a grown man.’

Despite himself, Remus laughs as Sirius waggles a pinkie finger by way of illustration. ‘You are such an arsehole,’ he says.

‘You knew that about me as well,’ says Sirius. ‘C’mon, let me show you my new brushes.’

Sirius is buoyantly enthusiastic as he shows Remus the new set of paintbrushes, and tells him about how they will help his painting. His good mood is infectious, and Remus resolves to worry less, and live more in the moment.

#

Over the coming weeks Sirius spends more and more time painting, moving on from what he breezily tells Remus are just “practice pieces” (however good they look to Remus) to trying to develop a style of his own. It’s a new development, as Sirius admits that for a long time he’d only painted fakes or touched up existing works as part of their restoration. Remus is pleased and proud that Sirius is producing original pieces.

‘Making up for lost time?’ asks Remus, glancing around the spare room Sirius uses to varnish his paintings and leave them to dry. He’s amassing a decent collection.

‘Something like that,’ says Sirius, looking up from his work. ‘I suppose I just needed the right inspiration.’

Remus sets down the glass of water he’s brought Sirius and looks out of the window. The sun is just starting to set, casting a golden glow over the ocean. ‘It’s definitely an inspiring place.’

Sirius puts down his brush and goes to stand beside Remus. ‘I’ve been to Phangan before,’ he says softly.

There’s a lump in Remus’ throat, and he doesn’t quite know why.

‘I used to feel like I was dead inside,’ says Sirius. ‘Before.’

Remus turns to him and smiles. He remembers what McGonagall had said to him, about Sirius being little more than a walking corpse, and finds himself absurdly pleased to have proven her wrong. It’s tempting to write to her, send a photograph of Sirius smiling as he paints, and a note reading “SEE!” in red ink.

‘Perhaps I am a good influence after all,’ says Remus. ‘Your former probation officers would be so jealous that I’ve reformed you.’

Sirius wrinkles his nose. ‘You know I love it when you talk dirty, treacle, but there’s no need to be disgusting.’

‘I think I might get a job,’ says Remus. It’s something he’s been thinking about for a while. He can’t do anything like his old job, of course, but there’s casual cash-in-hand work in the tourist trade or he could get something in a shop. Something to give him a bit of a routine, make him less dependent on Sirius.

‘What did I just say about being disgusting?’ teases Sirius.

‘I mean it!’ says Remus. ‘You’ve got your work. I should do something too.’

‘I paint, I don’t work.’

‘It doesn’t feel like work because you love it,’ says Remus. ‘But it does give you something to do.’

‘Well, and also I don’t get paid and there are no consequences if I don’t bother,’ says Sirius. ‘But if it’ll make you happy.’

‘It will,’ says Remus, hoping he hasn’t given the impression that he’s unhappy at the moment. ‘Course, you carry on like this I could be your agent.’

‘Could you now?’ says Sirius as he goes back to varnishing his painting. 

Remus grins at him. ‘If the commission's right.’

‘Let me just get this finished,’ says Sirius. ‘Then we can talk terms.’

#

When Remus wakes it’s early morning, a rare breeze drifting across the bedroom as the sun starts to warm the sky. The other side of the bed is empty and cool, leaving Remus wondering where Sirius has got to. He sometimes rises early to paint, but it can’t have been light enough for him to work when he got up. Curious, and just slightly concerned, Remus pulls on a robe and goes to look for him.

Coming down the stairs, Remus can hear Sirius’ voice, though he still can’t see him. Is there someone else in the house? Who could Sirius be talking to? His old snooping instincts kick in, and Remus creeps across the hallway, eventually deducing that Sirius is in a room at the front of the house, one with a large desk and walls covered in books, that’s probably called the study. The door’s slightly ajar, making it easy for Remus to stand outside and hear everything.

There’s no other voice, suggesting Sirius is on the phone, to someone he calls “Minnie” in a voice that suggests he’s teasing – Minerva McGonagall, perhaps? Remus feels a cold lump of dread form in his stomach; surely nothing Sirius could have to discuss with his solicitor could be good news.

Sirius sounds remarkably cheerful, and seems to be negotiating something.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing in Paris? Or maybe Italy? Even Berlin would be better… well, no, but I’m sure he could learn. He’s having Thai lessons, you know, he’s doing very well.’

Remus swallows heavily. It sounds like Sirius is talking about him.

‘Yes, I suppose, but you know how septics are. How am I supposed to live surrounded by people who pronounce “Van Gogh” like a vehicle rental company?’

Sirius, Remus notes with a smile, pronounces the name with a flourish of phelgmy pretension.

‘I know, but only about half the people in London are English anyway, that’s what makes it bearable,’ Sirius continues. ‘You know I am. OK, I’ll talk to him… Of course I do… Yes, you’re the best. Thank you.’

Remus backs away, half-expecting Sirius to come out and not quite ready to face him yet. He wanders over to the kitchen, and sets about making coffee for something to do with himself. It’s obvious that Sirius is up to something, and the fact that Sirius hasn’t told him anything about it makes Remus uneasy. 

Lost in thoughts, and his inability to make the espresso machine function, Remus doesn’t notice Sirius’ approach until Sirius’ arms are wrapped around his waist, while Sirius leans over his shoulder.

‘Mornin’ treacle,’ says Sirius. ‘You’re up early.’

‘Not as early as you,’ says Remus, trying to keep his voice even and non-accusing. ‘I thought I heard you talking.’

‘You possibly did,’ says Sirius. ‘I was on the blower to my old brief, McGonagall. I asked her to look out for job opportunities for you.’

Remus stills, uncertain what to make of this information. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘I know, I wanted to.’ Sirius presses a kiss to Remus’ cheek and gives him a little squeeze. ‘Anyway, she found one for you in New York. At the Met – the art museum, this time, but it sounds like fate, doesn’t it? Going from one Met to another.’

Wriggling away from Sirius’ embrace, Remus turns to face him. ‘When I said I wanted to get a job, I meant at a shop on the island or something. I don’t want to go to America.’ Even he even did, Remus fully expects to be wanted as an accessory at very least. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

‘Leave me?’ Sirius blinks. ‘I’m coming with you.’

Well that’s just fabulous. Sirius has clearly lost his mind.

‘Sirius, you can’t go to America, you’d be lucky to make it onto a plane anywhere,’ says Remus. ‘There’s bound to be an international arrest warrant out for you by now, and from some of the stuff Riddle’s gang have done before it’s quite possible that Interpol are the least of your worries.’

‘No, really, it’s fine – ’ Sirius begins, but Remus cuts him off.

‘It is not fine,’ he says, voice rising. ‘It really isn’t. You faked a Van Gogh and sold it to a violent criminal syndicate, you can’t just carry on like nothing happened.’

‘Yeah, about that.’ Sirius glances down. He looks strangely sheepish. ‘I’ve been kind of… waiting for the right moment.’

‘The right moment for what?’ says Remus, exasperation making him snappish. What ridiculous shit is Sirius pulling now?’

‘It’s probably best if I show you.’ Sirius offers Remus his hand, but Remus crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not going to be easily fobbed off, and it’s about time Sirius realises it. Sirius looks disappointed, but motions for Remus to follow him anyway. As he walks away, Remus notices that Sirius is barely dressed, clad only swathe fabric fashioned into a makeshift sarong. Remus resolves not to be distracted by it.

They go downstairs, where Remus knows there are more bedrooms and another living area, though they don’t use this part of the house often. The room Sirius leads him too doesn’t have much furniture, just a double bed with small cabinets on either side, one chair, and a large wardrobe. Sirius opens the wardrobe and pulls something out, something large and rectangular.

It’s obviously a painting, and Remus feels his heart hammering in his chest as Sirius unwraps it. He scarcely dares breathe as Sirius unveils the dusk pink sky above a row of deep green cypresses. In the foreground, a man and a woman stroll together through the thistles.

‘ _The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV_ ,’ Sirius explains unnecessarily. ‘The Van Gogh. My version of it anyway.’

Remus’ eyes flit between Sirius and the painting. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Take a look,’ says Sirius indicating the bottom corner of the painting.

Peering forward, Remus sees the mark clearly attributing the work as a reproduction of Van Gogh’s lost masterpiece, signed “Sirius B”.

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ says Sirius. ‘I didn’t sign the painting as though it was by Van Gogh and I didn’t give it to Dorcas to sell to Peter. I didn’t get Pyrites to falsely authenticate it and then have another expert expose the fake so that Riddle would be angry and Peter would get whacked.’

There’s a long silence, and Sirius forces a smile. ‘Wow, when I put it like that, it sounds like a terrible plan.’

‘I didn’t know about the second expert,’ says Remus, wondering if it even matters. ‘And it was a fucking terrible plan.’

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t do it.’ Sirius fidgets, looking altogether too uncomfortable for someone confessing he _hasn’t_ committed a major crime which could cause someone’s death and risk his own life and liberty. 

‘But you said… you’d been working up to this for 12 years,’ says Remus. ‘Why would you give it all up?’

Sirius stops still and looks at Remus directly at last. ‘You asked me, before, to choose,’ he says. ‘You or my revenge. And even though you agreed to come away with me anyway… I made my choice.’

‘You…’ Remus stares at him. ‘You really…’

Sirius nods. ‘Yeah.’

Remus closes the distance between them with a single stride, lifting his hands to cup Sirius’ face tenderly, and kisses him. It seems to take Sirius by surprise but he recovers quickly, parting his lips as Remus kisses deeper, more firmly, and allowing Remus to angle him towards the bed.

‘You really did that for me?’ asks Remus, awestruck. He’d been so certain that Sirius was the sort of person who never allowed himself to be talked out of something once he’d made his mind up.

‘It was more a case of not doing.’ Sirius grins up at Remus, his expression fond and alight with mischief.

The revelation leaves Remus absurdly, astonishingly happy. He feels light as a child on the first day of summer holidays, giddy with release. There’s no vicious gang lords after them, no Interpol, no living a life with one eye over his shoulder at all times. They’re really, truly _free_. And Sirius is lying before him, half-naked with only that stupid sarong knotted over his hips, like a present ready and waiting for Remus to unwrap.

‘And Pettigrew, you’re really going to let him get away with it?’ Not that Remus cares much whether Peter Pettigrew lives or dies, but him getting off scot-free means that Sirius could get drawn back into his self-destructive quest for revenge.

‘Not quite,’ says Sirius. ‘‘Marlene tipped off your pal Longbottom when he got a delivery of brown, and if you hadn’t chucked your phone you’d know he’s facing a long stretch for possession with intent. It’s better than he deserves but, well. I’ve got more important things to worry about.’

‘Thank you,’ says Remus, leaning forward to kiss Sirius again. He presses enthusiastic, warm kisses to Sirius’ mouth, and across his face. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘Mmm, you’re welcome,’ says Sirius. He chuckles as Remus runs his hands down Sirius’ sides, and kisses his neck. ‘Not sure what I’ve done to deserve all this but I’m not complaining.’

‘Good,’ says Remus in between more kisses. ‘Although I might make you moan a bit.’

‘Lucky me,’ says Sirius. ‘If I’d known you’d react like this, I’d have told you about the painting ages ago.’

It takes a moment for the sentiment to penetrate Remus’ joy-and-lust drunk brain. He stops and pulls himself upright, sitting back on his hunches.

‘You little shit.’ Remus aims a slap to Sirius shoulder. ‘I’ve been having kittens thinking we were on the run from the law and your underworld enemies.’

Sirius just grins, the infuriating, insufferable git. ‘What, you’d rather I had done it?’

‘You could have told me,’ says Remus. ‘Instead of putting me through all this stress and worry.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ says Sirius. ‘Much more exciting this way.’

‘More exciting?’ Remus thinks that deserves another slap. ‘I ought to feed you to the sharks, see how you like exciting then.’ 

‘I could make it up to you.’ Sirius rolls his hips, rubbing against Remus. ‘Just tell me what you want?’

Too happy to be properly annoyed, Remus laughs despite himself. ‘You are the most exasperating person I have ever met,’ says Remus. ‘Just… keep being you.’

‘You’ll get nothing fake with me, sweetheart,’ says Sirius. ‘I’m a real original.’

‘Yes.’ Remus smiles down at Sirius fondly. ‘You really are.’

The End


End file.
